Incense

I was Wordsworth's cloud;
     essence of Sandalwood, some Pine,
     resin of Aloe, condensed drop-
lets; some rising and rising
     embers in cooling blue sailing
up in windless Frankincense, parading
     o'er hills and vales, mankind.

From the ash below me you glowed,
     my Makko in the valley
     of the Tabu-No-Ki trees,
and as I grounded into your Dragon's
Blood we boiled, distilled, oxidised
     more Myrrh, Mastic, the Juniper
of the Cocoa Grasslands, then breathed.

Thicker than Wordsworth's cloud,
     our Elemi soared into the stratus
     o'er the Himalayan Cedar, the Atlantic,
the Lebanon; densing o'er Norwegian Spruce;
     sour Earth-ashes of before
fell from our budding field of lavender,
as we swelled the vales of our atmosphere.

I Miss

I miss writing without pretention;
summer holidays window-gazing from indoors,
my room yellow from radiation,
air a suit of sweat-stained gauze

from which I wrung my nubile poetry.
I miss cricket on the beach, all mobile
parents; Dad running, bowling, free
as the wind that whipped the balls for miles;

Mum free-walking, joining or laying a spread
for us five to eat; yesterday yet never,
yet today inside my heart and everyday
in memory, sand between toes forever.

I will miss that active, alive childhood
throughout the generations I survive through;
my own young or others; I have stood
in places and stand there still anew,

ghosts in my eyes of flicker-book things
all converging, building, stinging;
Dad's bare brown back in summer heat
or lawn green bowls rolling

from his bent-knee frame, then quick,
he's driving to work for Electrolux
towing a gleaming goliath trailer equipped
with cleaning machines; this as mum cooks

her speciality roast, or passes gifts
from the base of the christmas tree
in the early-hour thrill, kissed
thank-yous shy and tentative.

I miss standing in the old places,
filling my old spaces with my size;
will miss the passing faces
and wear each one at times.

Crave

It's too much, yet not enough
to sate my burning
eye-lust for you.
~~~~~~
Above an ankle sock
a flash of pink,
curves of skin unpeeling
to calves and knee-pit g-spots,
the range of thighs and butt
like a bronze sea
undulating its
wavy candleflame-
flesh, firm but giving
in my grasp, releasing pearls with my tongue
until I capsize, no air
beneath you.
From toe to head I drown.

From head to toe I drown
beneath you,
until I capsize, no air
in my grasp. Releasing pearls with my tongue-
flesh, firm but giving
-wavy candleflame
undulating- it's
like a bronze sea;
the range of thighs and butt
to calves and knee-pit g-spots,
curves of skin unpeeling
a flash of pink
above an ankle sock.
~~~~~
Eye lust for you
to sate my burning.
It's too much, yet not enough.

Pause

It's easy to start with something substantive,
for it's you;
you place your head on my chest
where your tears are laid to rest;

you smell of work
and bus stops, the premature night
in your conditioned hair, crescent
of frustrated grief.

I wish I could fast it forward,
I wish I could pause it all,
(30, 40, 50, 60,
when is old? A death expected?)

- here in our private darkness,
practicing the at-once universal
and inalienable personal
truth of truths; a fist smacks down

so I hold your shaking close,
closer, closest I've ever held;
and for a while I feel the tears meld
the seconds into hours,

our beats unify and slow,
slower, slowest I've ever felt;
and for a while our latticed fingers melt
the hours into years;

this could be now,
this could be then,
this could be it.

I See The Dead

Watching old films,
I see the dead;
Kissing on the screen,
White lips, grey eyes,

Hair of ash
And worms and earth,
Their essence breathed
Into breezes that connect

With one another,
Generations chained
By celluloid, burned
To dead pixels

Painting a future
With a past,
A past with a future,
An endless reel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I see the dead
Staring back at me,
There will be fire
In my pale blue eyes,

In my pale blue eyes
There will be no fire;
There will be a fire
Melting my pale blue eyes;

A fire, gas-blue,
Boxes of my image
And images of me
On paper, in light,

A digital fingerprint
Too, boxed, driven
Hard into memory
Like coffin nails -

Not too much heat, please,
And do not shake
Or drop me, I am
Susceptible to deletion.