Wednesday, July 6, 2016

The Junction

Is it a dream
Your touch
Your hands
Curling inward
Your phallic enterprise
And everything it stands for

Are you not
The manifestation
Of magnification
Of most honest moments
Captured in mind

And to what do I owe this pleasure
This promiseless venture
My life?
As it exists
Just Now or 


A gain and a loss
A junction between
Impossible choice
What of this
Which leads 
To nobody's

What of choice
Between boy who promises manhood
And man who promises
Such Sweet nothing

A repeated story
To be sure
Of upending everything
That has been stood for
In name of

A constant craving for more
Of the highest regard
Would you deem connection
Based On values
And continued presence
Or spirit,
matching breath
And shared stillness.

On a promise made
A love felt
Long ago
Or one felt now
With no promise of tomorrow 

Sunday, June 5, 2016

Response in Gold

An Understanding
Of ones personal tactile embrace 
Came early. 
Remembering my own
While All others blur,
After the moment 
Has bronzed.
Came later 
At the penmanship 
Of own mind 
And natural resolve,

Gentle power 
In curved lines
And pretty face,
Older confidence 
And naked traces 
Of knowing;
A curling of finger toward handsome man
Surprising power 
In a beckoning of love 
won, easily  

A continual pattern 
Unbroken by
Any battle between novices
In which touch was
Or Unrivalled

Gold, Experienced;
With face 
As sunlight filters, strongly 
Through muted skies  
Above Paris,
Heating adolescent body. 
On daylit skin
At night 

Gold experienced 
With mouth 
In European hotel, 
Laid back. 

Gold, experienced 
In shallow transactions 
Enjoyed fully 
In the respite from light 
Within air conditioned 
Shopping malls 
Many times the question asked 
In Printemps 

But a true bar of gold; experienced 
With both hands,
with an impermanent hold 

Always a reflection of intention
Without humility 
Becomes perilous 
And only true Midas 
Can touch 
Without intention
To disturb
(Or to disturb, peacefully)
Stillness begets sureness 
And awareness, choice
The touch, a gift, bestowed secondarily
Occurring with Unending energy 
Of kindness
And without intention. 
Like touch, is Often gifted
And Valued highly
Though gold, 
melts with heat
Touch melts, 
And must be handled 

For, Like gold 
When too often touched
Turns brassy 
When overused
Dulls the shine
Of each touch
Leaving no heat but marks
And marked 

Does not the value
Of gold
Entirely in its rarity. 

For Isn't gentleness 
the answer 
To most things 
That are not hindered 
clumsily by time
Or ambition. 

Monday, February 29, 2016

30 Summers.

Summer was the multitude of swimwear hanging over the towel rack in the bathroom
It was short shorts and red nails on the overheating pavement of kings cross
Big hair, headbands and rig.
Bloody marys in the morning
An unquenchable thirst for champagne.
It was drinking coffee again and revisiting hot nights at 77.
It was rolled cigarettes on the windowsill
Shared sunsets on the rooftop
It was golden girls in bed
And men, too. 
A season of heavily intoxicated vices.

It was riding fast on motorbikes
one handed.
And riding fast with both hands 
clutching fistfuls of hair. 
Valley overlooking tree houses
Magical new friends
Old feuds, ended.
A hand around my throat
First times
And last times before their time.
Madonna in the shower
Nights listening to the blues
The bottom of a whiskey glass.

It was ceiling fans and beach afternoons
Making out all over Sydney.
It was sitting at my desk and writing, again.
Parties at Aimees house.
Parties everywhere.

It was long mornings in sheets
And afternoon naps
It was Bowie.
So much Bowie.
And lots of glitter.
Glittering your whiskers.
It was the summer of all emotions and no tears.

Guitar lessons on Tristan’s floor
Naked swims at redleaf twice in the last week of summer in a last ditch attempt to grab it by the reins.
There’s a serenade crew in the bedroom taking turns on the guitar
And my own silence, drowned out by orgasmic groans.

It was dangling my legs in Emily’s pool
Like teenagers, in denim shorts and baseball t shirts
Sweaty dancefloors and neverending entertainment
Lunchbreaks at the beach
and life mimicking novels.

A summer than began with confident independence.
And ended in overheated senses.
A summer like heady jasmine.
Ripe, over scented, sickening and addictive.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Getting Wet

'Ocean, n. A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world made for Man - who has no gills.' - Ambrose Bierce

'The Ocean stands for God or Nature, the sole substance, and individual beings are like waves - which are modes of the sea.' - Spinoza

Monday, September 30, 2013

Saturday, August 31, 2013

Tuesday, July 23, 2013