toledodreams

So speaking out of turn
when three bottles down
it's not wine anymore - a Cana
miracle turning 5 bob red into
a morning's sweat-stench guilt
(get out of my bed, get out)
and I roll and reach and it's not you
'Don't you have to go to work?'
Haha the first parry of the post-dick
survival mode - dodge that one...
after alarms then 'No, not till later'
shit...shit...how do I explain the ear
defenders aren't for me - the sound
I want (out damn spot) is you.
You're in my top, an Oxford Uni nod
'Oh, did you go there?'
'No, but my mum did...to the gift shop...'
Haha the second sling to force and slip
parry parry thrust touche?
no, just a roll over, sir - re-embrace
the morning's muggy glory,
pass your hand through the window-slick
condensation, approach the blinds with care
and need water water like a 10 o'clock thing.
as I pushed your breasts into you, and popped the long dark home
I called regret and sighed inside please
no more of this franchise -
I deserve my better self and
all I've got to hide is this inebriate Jekyll who turns, in
mirrors in the day, to be my bride

wahaca (spaced)

tomorrow a Mexican, loose on the wheat-grass,

prairies of the plain’s white middle

given thyme to render and sold

ad hoc, the Booker way on Spitlfield’s day

when the orange crust of day (a slough, a sleigh)

melts cavernous in deep old stays.

i’d a drop there, the beach towel folds of

your underclothes – a feature film width of

sand sprinklings down your back,

the dark nestle of your thighs against the white -

the upside down tent, righteous with

Tea-tree sidings, the tent all a’rockin.

i’d see you  again on that wheat-grass

field, a line blazed tightly to your –

that’s not the way, a sage-brush elegy

smoked around the hay-fire ( a tenant

of a fizzing sandstone henge )

like the first December I left you,

over the phone and back again

‘I love you, I’m not in love with you’

ahh, the fake denouement

the time when said is placed and each

tinsel coloured line out and out

an engine pours into life – the grundle

lurch of an old piston slumping up

something from a back-woods Spielberg  -

to given to analysis than blood -

you know what I know now

the sweet idiocy of my, ahem,

self-righteousness (even the dogs

can read this one, pitched above the frequencies of

common man)