Circles. Shared in underlying measure
with some swifts that flicker higher,
deft and dark, obsessive on another prey;
its cruel beak mewls plaintive calls
but also sates its blood’s desire;
it is a silent beatless soar of wings
outstretched to ride the wind
in heedless majesty, against the void;
arching once or twice towards a stall –
an almost-stoop, a trigger not released –
before its tail again controls the flight
which carries those unblinking eyes,
quartering the ground;
although no quarter will be asked, or given,
in the hunters’ sky.
An old classic for 211 Conservative MPs to reflect on today 😕
Once posed as pound-shop
Churchill; now reveals himself
as a cheap liar
She spoke to me quite openly, about aspects of her life
Sometimes I met her eyes, sometimes her eyes looked down
We’d kissed. I’d held her hands, and helped her with her dress –
the zip was kind…
Her oral skills were wonderful, at least as good as mine:
Her touch was soft, her body firm. I actively adored her slender frame…
We promised more
explosive exploration; while traceries of sound, of painted filaments
Our lives just touched, briefly ~ rich lives, we’ve led in parallel ~
I am a room:
of hustling crowds and speaking noise and virus shards ~
I am giddy. So many people! Too many people?
Can it last? Does it make sense? It’s fun, who cares!
Oh, the things my walls can hear. You’d blush!
I am loud.
I am a room:
an atmosphere of shuffling dust and whirling motes,
of half-lit space and partly shuttered windows
where people used to come. Traces linger – DNA – somewhere…
my memory is hazy – they have faded – it has gone…
I am quiet.
I was a room:
now I am open to the changing sky
with joists broken, windows cracked, walls exposed to frost;
my plaster aches, my flooring reeks, things crawl on many legs…
Vermin eat the crawling things.
I am cold.
I may become a room:
I am a plan, an artwork and a virtual 360 tour.
I submit, although I may not be approved,
that equity demands a measure of equality
for the temporally unrealised.
I am perfect.
I could be a room:
a labour ward, a tax office, a mortuary;
I could be numbered 101 or called a pleasure dome
or manifest a quantum state, be home to Schrödinger’s cat;
I could appear, or disappear; or still exist unseen.
I will reflect what you would see.
When I woke in the night, I wanted you so much!
I burned, I yearned, to writhe again with you,
to share our fullness in those frantic urgencies;
the rod of my desire lay heavy on my guts –
a delightful torment, chasing sleep to shadow –
the road was bright, the fires were lit,
the way ahead was clear!
But after sunrise, black and grey return.
My arm lies flat, the light is smoky red;
the fat controller is awake in me,
sullen, soured and heavy with his duty
in my fractured signal tower, to block the route:
caution’s cold hand will keep my husk
protected, through another day in safety.
A new face, to me: well-lived,
a face of character and sense; enticing.
Lightly made up, highlighting those eyes
not so as to disguise her age,
drawing attention on the words
expanding in the air between us,
above her pert and subtle breasts,
her slender build – and legs
I’d like to dive between,
to give and receive pleasure
in that always-human place ~
My life remains free
Yet I need your help to breathe;
I won’t let you down.
She is the real deal:
challenged, tested and found true.
Celebrate fair hope!
Pain and fear unleashed
People like us; lives destroyed