Witch’s Asp.

Swagger, curled lip snarl, high level android mentat, logic processor,
feelings guesser.
Thin mist of never caught thoughts hovers in periphery,
smeared to grey fog’s pirouette effect – velvetine leatherette,
luxury he imagines. Wrong again, of course,
Null void; reactionless, marble stone-faced cold, beard icicles dangle.

She surveys him, with warm love, no melting,

“You’re cold, callous, full of badness, suck the goodness from me,”
Evil you are, no feeling, don’t feel, don’t care don’t know.

She cried it like a Lioness who has lost a cub to the new Lion,
face crumpled in pain.

Hurt words exploding invisibly
around flint eyed ice bearded man

“love, yes,” he said.
“love, but never call, never go, never ask, never a card or a word, never…..”

The hurt he saw it, it evolved like a limpet, it stuck
to his thoughts, it evolved into a burrowing thing, it burrowed into his brain,
the bit that feels and explains the pain.

And he saw it there in her, he did, he saw it there. The first time
he cried he couldn’t stop. It hurt a lot.
Not him, her, he thought, not me her, he thought, he tried to anyway.

The Kind Guide

The unrequited kind is mine

The not necessarily returned, closed heart kind,

The not spurned, nor, yet anyway, kind;

the burnt kind on crumpled mind and cursed kind; verse of worse,

seasonal autumnal needful feelings.

Immersed birthday letters;

proverbs, devoid of adverbs; love flutering

softly feathering caresses, last moments.

Shady luck;

Trick of chance

cannot feel your thoughts; can see you dance;

cannot hear your thoughts; can see you dance;

cannot imagine feelings; can see you dance;

cannot but would; Molly showed me the ecstasy of seeing the way other kind see, the right kind not my kind.

The guide I can love forever; that love is mine, forever;

I decide to end that not you, or her or him either.

 

 

 

Fly away Peter Fly away Plant

Starlight smile spangling doe eyes; soft

sunlight in velvet chestnut mantle.

Deep soulful eyes smiling, survey him.

Dreaming of the sensual curve of calf

• stilleto balanced on toes, leaning in
• and cupping hands; lingering touch
• complete control; I’d know; I’d needed; caressing

memories of that first night. When we were younger than before, my

heart opening for the first time, that mischievous grin

stirs my soul for the first time,

the memory of it even now, the last time,

whenever I kissed your lips

pure, soft and sensuous. Beautiful.

Waves of love flowed out of me to you

never stopped being in love with you.

Dreams of sun drenched beaches and being in your arms again

Always in love and caressing

Queen of my night and Mother of Mine.

Forgive me.

Not That bad

Sad, not bad, mad not sad, no not sad, unaware, anywhere, bad anytime,
“What you looking at twat? Eh?”
Sad, yeah pretty sad, not really, really sad, no, “out there” sad;
somewhere high now though,
In a k-hole, when I was two, out of body
smogged up for good then, fogged up
And choked up, choking on a star – its crescent congruence pertains to the appellation:
Constellation, stellar and canny good.
You could have it all, if it made bad not sad, or sad bad, just for a day,
Just for a friend who stayed true to you, in the end he did, for you, you know?
Stay true, he knew and you loved, because you is me, is you too, see?
All imagined, helical congruence is just a parallax view of it all.
Shaped, spangled, tangled and she played, indeed, twangled, strings vibrating
The heart in a red star glistening soft edged rose, red swollen
Exalted, excited, anticipated on elbow and knee creation, a fog of love descends,
Honey and the caress a cupping of unaware intuitive feeling my paradigm slide slowly
Clearly – plug in and turn on – clearing, disappearing –
“let me see it,”
Coming, coming, coming – it’s over make it harder
Get parted, diverge – demerge – avoid – polarity switch, core started the time of last orders
Dancing in the pale blue and white striped dress, pale above knee, bright shining doe eyes,
Illuminating mine, mine, she said. “Sometimes,” is the best it got, but now it’s never.
Left turn at the bog roll factory, or the box factory in the valley – she went, she came, and so scents life and the dying.
Photographs curl, like a fish on a line twisting and dying slowly – image fades,
The heart – the soul – the dead – the living we know, but unaware, of there and here.
That’s the place: the waste of time displaced; wanted and dreaded it flew by faster and larger.
Dropped through a fog of curlew craven crow like things with wings, a thought, it was;
A dawning of a new neurological quizzling report of an element of diligently laden kant that
Seeks to lay to rest, the rest of the true best – No, true.
Sad not bad.
But sad?
Aye, and that’s a fact.