Words words words

My desire for you is hardcore
the pictures I keep in my head
      the things we've done
      the things I want to do
I have to smuggle past customs
keep wrapped in plain brown paper
I have to
      avoid
the company of clairvoyant priests
and censor my poetry
My desire for you is hardcore

The yellow fish is swimming in the blue river
And the red tiger is sitting on the small chair
Reading a book. Although not anglophone,
Or white, these children have a fair chance
Of not being napalm’d, to protect freedom
And democracy, on their way home from school.
The yellow and white fish, whose eyes are black,
Is in the blue river. The red tiger
Is sitting on a chair reading a small book.

The old priest walked through the inner temple
and lay down with Night in his cold cell.
I crouch over her rampant, scrotum tight
and dip my head for kisses hot and wet.

The old priest struggled with lingual ciphers
in his batter’d book as Night’s daughters
dance naked in the stuttering candlelight.
Animal horned I bend to her white neck
soft smooth pheromonal in the darkness,
a prelude to husbandry, her sweet furrow.

A sour Sunday taste, he conned his creed,
tracing the fragile words, sub-w-w-w-wocally.
Arched, tendons taught, spread, hello and welcome,
it’s in again, in again, in again.

They dance by the springlets in the green mountains
and along the slumbering midland banks;
they dance by the ooze, the tidal rise and fall
and in the bright spume of the foam-capped waves.

If you’re a’reading of this poem
You *may* not like the way the theme is goin’,
It’s OK,
I’ve got nothing to say.

If you’re reading late at night,
And you find the metrics a little disturbing,
Be not affeard,
You’re *probably* not alone.

And it doesn’t really matter if the lines don’t scan,
it’s a verbal scam and it reads like spam today …
‘Cos it’s only a WordPress poem.
And it doesn’t really matter if my words don’t sell,
my dayjob’s hell and my girl thinks I’m a clown …
‘Cos it’s only a WordPress poem.

If you think the rhyme’s all forced
And ev’ry metaphor is bust,
Don’t despair,
There’s nobody there.

Four chlorines on two benzene rings
again, four chlorine two benzene ring
four chlorines on two benzene rings
(not knowing they dance in the colour’d light)
four chlorines on four chlorines on
two benzene rings and here we can eat the rats
eat the plastic
and we sustainably use
oh so organicalically
their sweet shit to fertilize these oh so
lovely bright green veggietables (not knowing
in das collar’d light day dance) we eat.

The owl in spectacles, a strange receptacle, for love.
The owl, spectacled, strange strange strange receptacle,
for love four chlorines, for love, four chlorines …

the claws swing round you as you dream
the crabs are bitting you you scream
the claws swing round and round you you dream
crabs bitting you bitting you you scream

I was thinking of you and your butt
when you’re running, as I was running
the other day, how it sways and, as might be,
how your running skirt flicks up with each stride.

I had been thinking about my toes and when
your butt flashed into my mind, as it were
serendipitously, my fascination
with your anatomy and my toes, juxtaposed,
really, honestly, improved my action.

Running is important to me. My sandles are on the verge of falling to
pieces. I’m trying to do a more barefoot but my bigtoes seem to cramp
in a little and crush the next poor pinkie, so I get a nice blister on
the pad and there’s also a bruise under one of the nails. I did manage
a 6′12 mile on Sunday though. Man! I was hungry afterwards. I can’t find
the magnet for my Catseye - no more numbers to play with for the weekday
runs on the pavements. The shorter run is up and round the “river”.
Takes about 20 minutes I think. The longer one is along the front, over
one bridge onto the island and back down past the fishmarket and the
high school. Poser. That’s about 40 minutes.

The Pose Technique has made a lot
of difference recently, although I only dip into the articles, find
ideas to play with. These weeks, I’m thinking that the littletoe touches
the ground first, but that may change.

The current bunch of aphorisms, to help me through the miles …

* Running is, ummm, ancestral, is that a good word?
* Barefoot is the natural way.
* If something is hurting, I’m doing something wrong,
* which is not always doing too much.
* Don’t allow myself age-related excuses.

The cold prince analyses the clouds dressed
all in black, juggling his philosophy,
puritanical, enlightened, lettered
and lost. This one is camel-like, desert
trekking across the seas of sand, or like
the hedgerow filch, twisting words, or its back
is very like a whale. Away we sail.

The undiscovered country is now mapped,
passports are available online, SF
novelettes detail its mores and customs,
the technologically triumphant
ego, blessed by science, anticipates
eternity, enthroned in the pilot’s seat
of a UFO. Away we go!

And the flesh will be as honey’d dew
and wave the weary world goodbye, and poor
polluted Mother Earth will be left below
our future in the sky. I can fly!