* surprisingly...

Failure is a function of risk...

~ Ben Affleck*

Շնորհավոր անկախության օրը Հայաստան!

Shnorhavor ankakhut’yan ory Hayastan!

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)

a long line in

a long line in you said to me
we'd the neat folds of bitumen to
negotiate, the rose-warm winter of
the Katoomba pass
when i carried more weight and the ginger
in my beard had yet to creep north
(the vain effort of my chest hair to unite the front)
when we passed too close to the bulge
and the lone truck-stop bookshelf
decided I'd read Bukowski and not
Wyatt - when the fog rolled (like a reverse in-camera
trick, something from the 70's) down the valley
back into the Nargun-caves -
the light of you, the think bottle-green of a
swimming tattoo, the like
and seem of
a fey nose balanced on the almost crescent
sealed almonds,
the frame red
the defiant child streak, a crimson-more
to mark the turning of your 21's to teens again -
I gave you five, a long-fingered minute
Three One Thousand
Four One Thousand
and then blew out the candle of your dreams
and rapt awake my heir and hide,
so much in so little
'where do you see yourself in five years?'
like at twenty you knew, what you knew now
and sought burning; not knowing of tornadoes
on red-lakes and tea-tree sleep walkers
(they said it wasn't chicken-pox) for sure
just shingle-roofed village green
the Welsh-principle applied again -
when you visit your - and his - will you leave
some piece of me buried in a vine-yard,
basting with a simple Italian...
out in the sand on the long, fleeing desert -
coiled in the back, child-clothe collateral, one
grabbed toy, an inter-state
backwards coup - a child, some town
the Byron-shore and you