Let’s start something we won’t want to finish

Come and join me! Let’s connect.
Be versatile bubbles engrossed in steamy 
bathtubs, luscious luxury in thrilling union,
forever finding the fit of each other’s fancy and structure.

We’ll rule the long dark streets in the small hours
taking our pick of after-midnight gardens. Finding
new territories, reclaiming old favourites.
Bossing the scene, a hot urban fox and cool country vixen.

Let’s learn to dance - foxtrot, tango.
Drink cheap whiskey. I’ll sweep you off your heels and collect
your falling blushes. When I have them all we will paint 
our town, leaving our mark, creating a legend 
bigger than Terry & June.

Let’s take tea at the Ritz. I’ll get dressed up
to the nines with odd socks and no shoes. I’ll nibble the crusts 
from your sandwiches and blow 
like a baby’s whisper to cool your brew. You can slurp from your saucer 
while I protect you from those uptight stares. When we leave we’ll take all the cakes.

Let’s occupy grand houses and start 
our own cult. I promise to cling to your gospels, and we can gossip 
freely with affection. I will find daily kindling 
for your lazy rituals. We’ll wake each morning to fallen angels 
and an eternal love powered by the energy of three chord guitar riffs.

Taken from HONEY DEW

Ask the boffins, dreamers, historians & the poets

Scientists tried
to let it flourish
in dishy mould. Got in a whirl
experimenting with DNA. 
Found the true elements, but not the exact mix. 
Distilled it, diluted data. Got lost in taxonomy.
Discovered it has to be the real thing, 
cannot be replicated
and shyly published their findings
without conclusion.

The philosophers gathered
and chatted each other up, 
ignoring Abelard. Plato held a symposium. 
Engels looked backwards.
They took a long hard Roschian look 
at their hearts, supposed something seminal.
Grand statements proclaimed, 
eternal models offered, still 
to be fully understood.

The historians 
inferred love by numbers. 
Exhumed early signs. New kingdom
love notes, damage smitten by ego.
Located myrtles in the foam 
but excavated Psyche.
Recorded 999 ships for Helen. 
Traced Napoleonic foreign affairs back to Hippolyte. Found proof 
of fairy tale romance.

The poets
tried.     Penned flowers. Dickered cliché 
for metaphor. Flapped angst 
touching images of lust.
Cried with joy. Celebrated love lost. 
Composing ever after.                 Here we go again.

Taken from The Machinery of Life

Eric Blair got misplaced 

It was a bright cold day
in April, and the clocks struck
thirteen as he looked 
to modern classics
for freedom
and accepted his ignorant weakness.
Despite the rearranging of words
the fact remained
he had taken a totalitarian 
wrong turn, 
this was not the romance section.

He felt the weight of paper,
read instructions
for a future ownlife. Narrated 
warnings, dreaded overall collectivism.
Got lost in statistical sanity
while waltzing 
with images 
of stamping boots
and learning lines of lust and guilt.    

He recited 101 ways to seduce 
propaganda, whispered Newspeak doctrines
to amorous party members.
Plotted a surreptitious fling with 
surveillance and found room
for craving
for Julia.  The truth 
rewrites desire, 
                         passion is freedom.

Dystopia is a curious affair.
They may have watched
but they never saw the double truth
that in reality he yearned
to write a love poem. 

Published August 2021 by Runcible Spoon