I JUSTIFY
I justify and you indulge
the day, and day again recounting
of innumerable numbers
and those sense depriving dreadful words.
I justify and you indulge
the limp madness and lame anguish
of my real-as-magic half-imagined ills
and my electronic proven fault.
I justify and you indulge
the moss green sulk so cleverly explained
that we, the villain and the victim, swop
and change the colour to the red of righteous rage.
I justify and you indulge
and see the inward eye confuse the message,
but let the inquests in my prima donna brain
feed the hungry cells of self and doubt.
Do not indulge or justify
the unease, jealousy and spasmodic nausea
even if it seems my groundless moods are only
the strange product of my love for you.
HOW CAN YOU TELL IT'S ENDED?
Finite, final, finished, flown and gone:
that’s how its described,
to friends and all and sundry.
But, how can you tell it’s ended?
The grass is as green and the fridge is as freezing.
How do you know it’s up?
Maybe it never was.
Life can still race or drag.
Nothing giant: the differences are minor, even subtle.
Saturation is as fleeting as desire,
and even habit has its excitements.
Yet, something has told you it’s over.
Reception is bad, the current is off.
Something has told you it’s ended.
Grass is just grass and the fridge is just cold.
It all soured surreptitiously.
Not aiming just doing.
Draining not filling.
Unaware destruction, not even instinctive creation.
Sometimes, after the break there’s rankling depression
and sick sentimental revulsion..
Occasionally.
Both will wear off anyway, and I’ll soon be aboard again.
One day I’ll forget to get off.
I WILL NOT BEG
I will not beg from you
some favour or reward
that I earn through merit
or need from desire
or want for a collection
or seek for amusement
or procure with sympathy.
And I am not offering
a prize or present
that is there for the taking
or that cannot be refused
or will blow away your inhibitions
or will be the right technique
or give a reason for your life.
They’re all one-way traffic.
But if we are just us
and there’s no thought of give or take
or better still no thought at all
no fencing or manoeuvring
no plans or stop watches
no future ties
or present afterthoughts:
the unity of time and place
is shattered by our union.
CITY LUNCH
Brief longed for interval just slips away
where millions hunger to partake
and rush, shuffle, dawdle, struggle for the sake
of mechanical child-forgotten play.
I see some variable habit as they all adjourn
to carry on, not off, their work in unseen cases
to bars, parks and cafes, where their chases
to leave are only part of everyone’s return.
In that pin-prick of a fleeting hour
we sometimes meet and casually create
a sheltered universe, in a cosmic state:
all from elements not in any way sublime.
Lovers’ enchantments look banal to others.
Who cares? Tomorrow then at one?
In time we can gently mock those others,
for sadly seeing ecstasy as just a bit of fun.