My Poetry

The light above me glares so harsh
the mattress beneath me lacks a certain warmth
Not of luxury and wasted silken riches
but of the blooming summer petals in the hidden vaults of your seasonal pupils

Cheap drink has made me so numb, so distant from my scattered biological video recordings
I cannot feel the blood in my fingers as I hastily try to exhale your vital essence into them
Cannot feel the flames enveloping the darkness within the sacred endocrine temple where only you have pass to row across the Styx

I am starved of your oh so gentle delight and delicate imaginations
with the more sensation that solders my flesh to your own
the more bondage and slavery I ache to finalise myself to your vibrant lavender soul
freedom swiftly disapparating as my greatest trickster
There’s better freedom in the closed empty circle beside us in these once haunted woods

I’m stripped of all my pretty and petty little defences
which fools none, but clearly blinds all
Where only a zealous greed and birthright claim can penetrate
Beneath my oxidised chains I am nothing more than a needy slave

And so, I fall head first into that reminiscent cologne I know belongs only to the saviour
I trigger, accelerate, spur myself on
and gear myself up for the endless selfish emotion and the never ending free fall of blurry lust
There is no regulation within this temporary damp suit I gallivant around in
how can liquid preserve the tangible moments of an abstract history?
Were I born a hundred years ago I would have lost myself within the abyss of my own in-stable mentality

Instead I throw up your picture on my modern phone screen and embrace it close to my gravity’s center
My intention never really one of control
but full of eternal longing and loss of undeveloped self

There in the murky gloom you respond
the reaper is here no longer for my blood
I thank my atomic ancestors for the swelling storm that rages
for it brightly casts brazen red blindness within the lake of my disused hearth
perfect and glorious in its rulership
tearing down the proud and giving second chance to the humble

Silver leaks magically from my guttered lymphatic pores
As my iron and salt wounds are transformed into a miracle butterfly so pure
a beauty that spreads its exotic wings
and jumps naively into the unknown
to create its own classic melody

That’s what you are to me
Beethoven’s symphony
inscribed by your seven year old sweet genius
as the fluttering whispers of beats pound hard u’neath my ribs
and through my virgin frenzied veins

Reminding me, after all
you’re the vast sky that holds space for the sun
For trillions of nuclear fusions maintaining our on-point miracle zone
and though the night may twinkle with untold tales
My life, your life, is a graceful avant-garde concoction
of oddly chosen sensual variables

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