| Beautiful Youth Vanilla fizz and
Chablis dreams create chords,
fragrant as a young man under silk sheets.
Skin to skin, limb wrapped around limb
like woven grass or haughty reeds.
He marblesmiths my mind, mixes
our essence, the scent of our souls.
His kiss as Moselle in my mouth,
his body, the Brahms to my Mahler,
a melody, gin-clear in my head.
My mind gone mad and bad-
its hydrocephalus shape bent in a loop
stealing thoughts made crazy with sex.
Desires fevering my bloodstream.
His touch as rain, persistent as November,
reminding me of peacock days
spent in water satin passion.
Slow Mud
Gone too, the zest for existing.
No quest to make him Mr Right.
It's Billy Boy, teen dream date of '68,
here to ruffle Molly Barbour's mind.
Her, who? oh Molly, head down,
scanning the erotic review
of the resuscitation of Christ.
But we don't believe that,
not here in the underground.
I called it my own road to hell.
It wasn't - paradise was at the end,
so I told them all later, after the gin, the beer,
the late morning party when we watched
a three legged dog dance with a poor man's daughter,
the way you do in Glasgow.
|
