Antiquity

time unrelenting
personal passage
minutes movements
marked

Calendars...

pretty pictures
numbers of precision
pristine white pages
visual reminders...

Clocks...

ticking away measured lifetimes
bated, dated, bar-coded
scissors move to cut the threads...

he is a poet
and I, destitute in his mercy
make small unintelligible sounds

his tongue curls around
my syllables of breast and thigh
I leap into occasion
devoured of flesh,
he hides me from myself
and dissects my sentience with mathematical precision

there is a dark angel sleeping in my bed, his poetry
oppresses me, he taunts me with his touch
and his pen pinions me

he whispers: "fly with me"

I walked the beaches' shore
Salty seas still lingers in my nose
With parted lips
The taste of salt settled
On my tonsils

I fancy the summer breeze
Welcome the humid air
That rose from the water's surface
My skin grubby with sand
Ever moist

The touch of his hand in mine
Welcoming stares in his eyes
Made the heat unnoticeable
Taste of wine on his breath
Warmth of sweetness on my face tickled

Like dandelions blown in the wind
Love and nature shares with the ocean

Killer

The poem is about a famous collector of antiquities who left his collection to the people of Glasgow. This is housed in a custom - made building in the woods in Pollock Park. There the River Cart flows and my imagination was fired. Enjoy !

THE BURRELL COLLECTION

William Burrell's Merchant Fleet
Brought wealth to buy antiques and art.
He gifted all to Glasgow City,
To be kept in Pollock Park.

the white blur
like an albino dream
black satin filled with crystal wishs
star fallen in the faded well

I soared in the wind
Rose above the trees
I could have gone farther
Into space far up
To the stars and the sun
But the cord won’t let me go
It was only a wish
I am bound to it
With a little boy at the end
The boy understood my desires
Helpless though
He let go the string
But that which I thought
Tied me down
Was in truth
Holding me up

words pop into my head:
"Cambodia",
why on earth would I take
a ship through the pillars of Hercules?
I'm not an oarsman or an oracle
nor am I in favour of mutiny

words don't hop off the page with
regrets, pink-eyed and ready to fuck
at the drop of a hat

you just give a poem your best shot, write the
words down before life skins you alive
and you are carried away, still mouthing words that
would have been poems.

I am a plain man
simple in wants and needs
slight of stature and vision

small pieces
seamlessly woven together
a creature
unique
individual
me

sometimes happy
with many attending joys
at times sad
oh! so sad
of which nothing will be said here

all of me
experienced
in parts
at different times

Passion is the tides
Surge, ebb and flow
The roar of an approaching storm
Fires of hell burning
Bright

A lion’s hunger
When on the prowl
To the ocean’s depth
It is felt

Lust never fulfilled

Love is a comfort zone
An unconditional giving
Where no boundary lines are drawn
A knowing without a whisper
A reading of the signs

Love always fulfilled

Passion without love
Is empty
Love lacking passion
Leaves a void

Why can they not co exist
In one