Soft resistance.

Opening the door, still wet,

Smooth, gentle and disarming beauty.

Apologetic of your image and of your effect.

You smiled downcast in the street noise,

A perfect display of your soft resistance,

To the stories that make you look away so often.

 

Even after attempts to extinguish,

Through the slow rust of being pushed outside yourself,

You forged an outlet in raw talent.

I hear you.

 

I dared to suggest in tongue what surrender could mean for you.

Arching in seductive apprehension,

You folded in right angles across my line of sight.

Holding your eyes in mine,

Was the most tender rescue mission available to us.

A lesson in intimacy that cares little about where we came from,

And everything about what we deserve.

And you deserve more than you’ve been bound.

 

I did what I could in twenty five minutes.

Part wished your hands could be more creative,

But a familiar alloy.

I understood.

On leaving, whispered into your eyes – even pleaded,

That you knew your right to pleasure,

That you were allowed.

 

Afterwards, I spent the whole day dreaming,

With eyes alive in vital orange,

That we’d have that moment again.

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Patterns.

The struggle is found in the fine detail of the string.

 

Beautiful things mutate,

Becoming formidable decorations,

Through the lifetime twisting,

Of thought, to fractal, to armor.

 

Not just desirable, but glamorised,

An idolatry of missing the mark,

Early wounds,

Become the full retail package.

Organising as the grain of wood,

And then the floor of theater.

 

The fine surf of stained glass,

delimiting prism,

Projects shadow as form and cycle,

And light as commodity.

 

Redemption is only through exposure,

Of the inside out.

Grandeur reduced,

The gilding,

Of a mirror to live by,

That keeps promise,

Every day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fragile blows.

No point of origin has fever.

But its point of departure,

Is a thousand droplets,

Through a thousand pores.

Fever track untraceable.

Usually spontaneous,

Although affected by shame.

 

Even in my feeling right here I cut myself down lines of black and white,

Leave my shadow tacked to the floor with your easy pins.

Lie in ribbons on the blade of ‘too much’,

Only allowed form through the unclaimed dramas,

Of those kind of men.

 

Who are boys and boys of many other boys.

An endless row of troubled eyes,

In line. On line.

Bitter reverence for a timeless schoolyard.

And teeth set determined,

For a kind of encouragement,

Unavailable and denied.

 

I’ll walk your corridor.

 

Ducking and diving all those fragile blows,

 

To come back home,

 

To my self.

Mutuality.

Mutuality through potential is the small flame of a fire built on hope.

Each log placed in careful awareness,

Slow churn of the breeze both food and threat.

In an indeterminate direction.

A terminal contradiction on the backdraft.

 

Not so much breathing,

But a tessellate exhale,

Through a forest of such pure morning,

The medicine almost too much to take.

 

The soil is the consolidated pattern of every tear drop,

Left in anticipation of change,

Like the slow boil of the soul in a new encounter.

 

In the hearth, there is a prayer

And a dare to whisper,

Everything I hope to be in love.

Dirty boys and colloidal silver.

What are you to me, but a blind spot.

Futile concealment in boundary-less wake.

Love on the perimeter.

Interrupted in momentary breakouts:

Cycles through deluge of analysis and self defence.

Wounds spent to early,

Words only spent on fucking.

 

I spend my days looking for you.

Tread seedy low light pathways,

Wondering if you’ll emerge,

Like an adult rated eternal Pan.

A constant playtime.

Scratchy blanket.

 

I wonder who you’re with and why.

Haunted by the masc-lines of hard bodies,

Easy-touch and heart of your foreign affairs.

It surprises me when I cry.

Tears run from such discrete places,

They soak my face like someone elses.

 

You were a relentless periscope,

Into concealed inner worlds.

So rough unbeknownst to yourself.

My anger was still there.

 

Every time you walked away I’d unfold like origami lotus.

Under threat of return, seal up with sharp edges.

From an impartial observatory,

Loose a little bit of my soul,

Every time I saw your heart break.

 

Paralyzed at love.

In and out.

Hot and cold.

Somewhere in between, I think I loved you.

Fuck your family parks.

Fuck your family parks,

For gardens of fuck dust and virility,

Deep and doggy style in strewn explicit litter,

In obvious but well hidden niches – in precarious hill side glades,

What won’t manage a buggy for you,

Is a warren of orgy to us,

Animal counter-measure to your pacifying rose gardens,

And playing fields of meek compliance.

 

Fuck your world class cuisine,

Bad sushi and overpriced wine,

Venue fronts dripping in judgement and misery.

For the adrenaline of muffled thumps,

Of dusty swing doors,

Symbolic popcorn and kernels like sand,

Sticky, tight-chested with close breath

And signalling,

Signalling….

For strobed release and strings of cum,

Anonymous interludes in films never seen,

But waited on.

 

Fuck your halls of trinkets,

Great cement leaches of the cityscape,

Fuck your homeware, cheap garb and perfume.

We’ll reinstate the wild,

In a temple,

Of piss soaked porcelain and hungry stares,

Of mud on toilet rims

And holes for whispers,

Of shadow code across tile and fluid,

Lair’s for the easy indoctrination of your machines.

 

Fuck your churches and your light codes,

Our pew’s are gnarly branches,

Cold stone floors,

The long grass on the perimeter –

Our sermon unfolds in dark room sensations,

And meditation in the silence around heartbeats,

Prayers fleshy and elemental,

We make our way to church as civilian,

Engage in ritual like creatures,

Fucking questions into everything you hold dear.

 

 

 

In me.

Fucked in the night, under a roll down blackout – face recognition disabled

 

but still

 

your arms.

 

 

Not so romantic as ‘I’ve been holding for years’ – but –

 

Tissues moist and secreting, the whole wagon of life complexifying to a wet ecstasy.

 

 

Years of the most subtle, yet obvious, closure

 

Dropping away with a desperate clawing for flesh and tempo.

 

Fucking, primal – pinned to the present through a messy and seductive biology,

 

Fucking, primal – finally, consensus of the fibers of my new pleasure hole

 

Fucking, primal – not so much lost in you, but backing into oblivion.

 

 

I claim my new superpower as a crazy fucking power bottom.