She and I were only lovers,
on a page of verse,
now we understand each other’s
lusts, and I rehearse
with her a monologue of chance
from some unwritten play,
unwieldy now and drunk we dance,
old poetry at play.
She fits the cobbles to her pace,
to skip suggestively,
and wears again that hungry face,
the face she wears for me;
and at the corner, what we lack
we find in our goodbye,
her fingers dance across my back,
the streetlights kiss the sky.
But she and I are only lovers
in between our lives,
that way we keep our worlds together,
thus the dream survives
that we can meet amid the weather,
dark in fading day,
and, each a feather, fall together:
piety at play.
Tonight, these lips kissed
Truth herself, whose lips waited
For me, painted red
Great romantics make
poor lovers; sadness is no
Something more than a sly opportunity
is missing, now that I’ve shuffled away
from a certain, sweet ivyclad friend
on my rough, snide feet of mouldering moss
Something more than a gasp of a chance,
and more than a chat over cider and wine,
otherwise I wouldn’t feel so dry,
aye, nor so much like I’ve spilled
all the colours from the paintbox of the sky
I had thought perhaps we might have cosily smouldered,
two shanks of pagan firewood amidst the embers of autumn,
softly sharing in our dignified decay,
two pieces of England in an epoch of concrete,
at least now and then
But more than that.
I thought we might have found
a fair comfort in one or two shared sentiments,
the masculine patterns of poetry,
the feminine curves of the hillside,
none of this entirely spectacular,
just enough for the last two romantics
to share a faded sigh,
not too serious
but wet and whimsical,
kind as Christmas,
pale as fog of hidden spires,
even platonic if need be
I suppose I only wondered if we might combine
our senses with our sensitivity
in search of essence,
after all, it’s hard to get carried away,
even for me,
even concerning you
At any rate,
I’m rarely in a hurry anymore
I am a broken bottle,
leaking out of my eyes,
daring others to drink,
tasting only of tears.
I seem to have lost
two friends in as many days,
and feel just like Job.
Leonard Cohen understands.
I find that the old, uneasy nightmares
are creeping back into my sleep;
I wander in haunted houses,
half-smothered by my own boyhood,
trapped, like a suppressed scream,
in rooms as grimy as a smoker’s lung;
everything tarnished, laid out fetishistically.
I always had the impression
that ghosts lived in the empty rooms,
the attics and the long corridors,
spreading behind them dead flies
as a bride might scatter flowers.
Now, coming back to me,
they seem less like the dead,
and more like the half-remembered.
But even now
I watch as beauty hovers
over the face of a grown-up girl,
flirting with the woman
that I might make love to the ghost.
Perfume disguises itself as the scent of flowers,
wild on a brambled track,
in between sunset and night.
Now, I don’t ask for operas,
only for a lasting sense of sweetness
to hang about me through the autumn.
It’s easy enough to be happy,
with just a little loveliness,
particularly blue eyes.
Let me write again about my muse:
her eyes are the centre of the world,
each eye a perfect singularity,
so the world has two hearts,
each latticed over with dark, howling lashes.
When she sleeps, the world sleeps,
when she wakes, we spin again,
but when she holds one eye shut,
and one eye open,
we pretend we have one heart
and declare our love to the dust of space.
My muse’s eyes are black,
the colour of black ink,
except when she’s laughing.
My muse moves
-how can I describe it?
I love her because
I don’t understand her-
Her hips are like oranges,
the skin is dark.
When I look straight at her,
I see pure desire
that dreams of it’s own satisfaction.
She smiles widely,
inviting you to smile back.
Her chin is off-centre when she smiles.
Her lips are screwed,
sucking on an invisible cigarette
-When I first knew her,
she rolled her own
like a skinny orphan-
Everything in her mocks you for wanting her.
When you touch her,
you feel the oceans roll inside her,
powered by the moon.
When a woman like this loves you,
if only for a day,
you understand why people starve for life;
you understand the hope at the heart of humanity.
My muse moves
and all my longing for God
moves with her.
Her body is like a mountain.
There is liquid fire behind her eyes.
I just saw this film. I think it might be one of the most important movies ever made. It reminded me of George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, in that it honestly portrays the betrayal of a revolution by those who claim to be it’s defenders. It also portrays the beautiful people who really do defend the revolution, and gives them the space to explain what their ultimate aims and motivations are. This movie helped me to understand the situation in Egypt, but, more than that, it’s given me a decent sense of the state of protest and democracy in the 21st century world.
A just man is
always on the side of the poor,
always on the side of the oppressed,
always on the side of the weak,
always on the side of the humble,
always on the side of the forgotten,
always on the side of the friendless,
always on the side of the lost,
always on the side of the innocent:
a just man seeks to be worthy of what he finds beautiful.