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