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virility

Chesty hairs speak virility,
As rolling thighs,
And hanging flab,
Quiver,
In rhythm,
With,
The pudgy flailing,
Of hands.

Sweat beads his brow,
While his chins pulsate,
With big mouthed,
Utterances.
Swollen ear lobes,
Flapping,
As he slaps his wife.
Putrid flesh casting,
Yellow shadows,
As toad like,
He sits,
Mouthing words.

We met once or twice,
You and I.
I remember you sitting in you chair,
Fragile,
Surrounded by buttons and phones.

I thought you were sweet,
Sitting there.
I wanted to know about your past,
Your dreams,
Your hopes when you were younger.

Sitting in pain, you never complained.
You asked after friends and family every time,
Making sure that everyone else was fine.

The last time I saw you, I knew,
I wouldn’t see you again.
Yet I will remember,
The second,
Mince pie.

Transfixed,
As he stands,
He sees nothing,
Flying,
Over clouds,
Scudding.

Emptiness from horizon,
To horizon.
Nothing but grass,
Swaying.

Swaying,
As he stands,
Eyes fixed,
Neck cricked.
Mind tricked.
Transfixed.

Possibilities,
My mind full of,
permutations.

Possibilities,
My mind full of,
Combinations.

Ears Pinned,
Straining for a sound.
The swoosh of wet wheels.
The purr of muffled engine.
Each engine it’s own language,
Each it’s own code.

I hear a grumbling,
Low bass,
Rumbling.
A distant susurration.
It could be an engine…..

I search for definition.
An edge to the note.
A clue of origin.

Wrong chord.
Wrong rhythm.
Too big.
Too fast.
Gone by.
Not stopped.
Not her.
Not Here.

What Am I?
With fluterry wings,
And furry brow?

I beat my head upon the moon.
The sky has shrunk,
And I have drunk,
The last of,
The silver,
Light.

What Am I?
With jittery sight,
And fuzzy eye?

I spiral into a dive.
And as I fall,
I see,
A pattern form,
With blacks and white,
Whirling round.

I land with a soft,
Crump,
And as I twitch,
My final throws,
I read the small Print.

An entry on a website for the National Gallery.  Possibly in 2001 not sure.
Poem was inspired by the picture.
Tim.

Bloke,
Strangely sits,
Precisely,
Upright.
Black leather jacket,
Glistens.
Bold head,
Glistens.
Small round glasses,
Glisten.
Black and white tie,
Stripes down his white shirt,
As he sits,
Upright,
Strangely,
Creepy.

The Tree I Wish I’d Been

Sometimes, I wish I could be a tree.
To stand with my toes in the earth,
To let the wind whistle through my fingers,
To let rain bathe my skin.
To suck cool water through my roots,
To harbour creatures.
To be a safe haven.

Instead I am a leaf.
Blown on the wind
I can’t control where I go.
I can’t stop
Whim carries me,
Kicks me in doorways
Slams me against windows,
Glimpses of what I could be.

Then under foot I am trampled,
Gorged by bugs
Until I become mould,
Feeding the tree I wish I’d been.

I sit,
Here in my little,
Room,
Surrounded,
By my little pool of,
Gloom.
Shimmering with reflected
Memories.
Of you.

I see,
In my mind,
A smile.
Big and wide,
Full of love…..
Shimmers…..
Gone.

Away,
Far from here,
Do you sit?
Do you have a pool?
With reflected,
Memories,
Of me?

I wait,
With breath baited,
Until,
I can return,
To find my love,
And together we,
Can banish,
Gloom.

A Rude Awakening

As I lie in warmth,
Cocooned by hollow fibre,
I feel a growing strength of quiet.
A tumbling together of silences.
An intense pressure,
Squeezing the air from my ears.
My eyes fly open,
As a wild banshee roar,
Dopplers in a moment,
Then,
Stumbling,
Dissipates,
Into the background hum,
Of road and bird

How can I sleep now?