Wildflower in an Indian Summer

I was walking home
through the dying Autumn leaves
as the wind whipped cold
deep into my bones
& I was underfed
& alone…

…but then I thought of you,
my delicate-blue wildflower:

stretched along the bed,
half-asleep in the half-light;
those gorgeous green eyes
filled with a love that can never be mine…

Green will bleed orange,
which will scab to black
before the white falls
& claims all colour back,

but through it all
you will keep me warm:

my wildflower in an endless Indian Summer*.


*Indian Summer – The Doors



The Winter

She is gone
but she never leaves me;

though she has left me,
she is always waiting.

Waiting for me
to suffer the day
so that we may play
our little game of predator & prey

while I try to sleep the winter away…

She took me to the graveyard

She took me to the graveyard.

We walked arm in arm through the dark & she told me that she had to leave soon. The day that lay behind us, the day I had spent in her presence, felt like something that shouldn’t belong to me.

I wanted more of her anyway.

I was Prometheus and she was the fire I had stolen. Fuck the gods; they could have my liver later, I didn’t care because I had their fire.

Fuck the gods.

We walked for a little while, talking, asking the interrogative questions new lovers always ask; submitting ourselves to judgement…

The graveyard was large, & it was old. The wide, winding pathways were sparsely illuminated by a few deep-orange lights glowing gently from black Victorian street lamps. Trees towered above us, impassive & silent, waiting & watching over the corpses buried beneath them.

“You can tell this graveyard is old,” I said “that it was built by people who didn’t try to hide from death like we do now…the benches, the trees and flowers…this was made to be a place for the living as well as the dead.”

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean: the graves are such big, decorative things; something for strangers to admire…I suppose when death is more prevalent, it makes no sense to try to hide from it. But is it really better that we’re no longer so familiar with the dead? Anyway, speaking of benches, I can’t see one anywhere nearby, shall we just sit down somewhere here?”

So we sat down; a cold stone surface beneath us & a square structure behind us. I couldn’t quite see it, but I know that in the darkness our eyes met. My gaze, so often unbearably light and blinded, like a moth bouncing against a light-bulb, was heavy with the warmth that can only come from covetous attention. A flash of white told me that she was smiling. I wanted to keep talking to her about death but her smile makes me forget things, so instead I just smiled back at her.

We talked some more; elaborating the sketches of ourselves that we would finally hand to the other, incomplete, at the end of the night. She talked about how shy she used to be, said something about feeling like ‘a wall-flower gone wrong’. I protested that she was no such thing. I wanted to tell her that to me she seemed like a once-wistful child who lived by her dreams; dreams that would have lifted her up and far away from here, like a petal on the wind, but that something, some outside force, had pinned her down when she was young and would not let her go. I wanted to tell her that beneath her kindness and self-effacement, beneath her beautiful, placid surface, there were endless depths. I wanted to tell her that she was strong, that she was wonderful.

Instead I told her that she was pretty: her smile makes me forget things, and I forgot that I’m not supposed to be so shallow and simple.

I no longer remember what else we said, because soon we began to kiss. She tasted exquisite, like fruit; wet & firm between my tongue & teeth.

It started to rain.

Sometimes the Universe grants us more than we deserve: as her hair, long & soft, tangled about my fingers, as her body, long & soft, twisted beneath my hands, rapturous desire flooded the filthy gutters of my veins and I said:

“Shall we fuck in the graveyard, in the rain?”

She smiled. Down the length of her legs the fabric fell.

Me on my knees as she bent hers, eyes on fire, smile wide & full of desire.

Every girl I have ever witnessed from this privileged position has been beautiful to me in the moment, but she was beautiful always.

I drink too much.

I drink too much because I cannot stand my soul unless it is blunted. Ever since my heart was broken, I have been a drunk. That, at least, is what I tell myself. If it strikes you as utter bullshit, I’d be inclined to agree. All alcoholics are self-pitying creatures, and it’s far too easy to be sentimental when you’re drunk all the time.

As she unfurled beneath me, I was drunk. Too drunk. My dick wouldn’t respond.

Sometimes that thing is even more useless than I am.

So, in a scene that I could not help but imagine from the perspective of another, as the trees silently looked on, I traced my fingers across her flesh & trailed kisses down her stomach until I was between her thighs.

She took me to the graveyard, & there, in the rain, upon a tomb, I went down on her. I can’t be sure that she came but she was wet in my mouth all the same.

Eventually the cold and unyielding ground crept into the space between us, and so we untangled. Clothes were put back on & I asked her how much longer we could stay together: she had time enough to sit with me a while.

The male Ego is an easily wounded creature, especially one that seeks the glorious abyss of post-fuck bliss with such fervour as mine. Those foolish thoughts of victory began to leave me. I felt like what I was: lost. I placed my head in her lap & she began to play with my hair: a scene I have replayed over & over again during all the years of my exile; I was searching with faint desperation for reprieve from my life as it has become, searching for that feeling, the one that left me when I was young & that I have ached for ever since.

I could feel the pace of her heart beat increasing.

Words were needed, words to seal the moment, to save it from the indignity of just another fuck…because I could not stand the thought of what had occurred, what was happening to me, to us, becoming just one more faded memory. I wanted permanence, petulantly: the permanence of this moment in all its beauty & ugliness, in all its safety & discomfort…I wished for nothing more than for it to last forever, & to never be condemned to the tomb of my memory.

The words that came to me first were from someone else. The words were the chorus of Suicide Bomber*. I have no way of knowing if she understood exactly what I meant by them. I don’t think I understand exactly what I meant by them.

“I want to expire,” I said “here, in this place, in this moment, in your arms. I want to sigh and release and then…go.”

“But why?”

“Because that way I can’t ruin it…I want forever, or I want the end of everything!”

She laughed and told me I was silly, but her touch seemed a little gentler.

Then, she said that she had to leave. So we stood up, collected our things, & began to walk away.

We walked in silence, until she turned to me & said:

“I’m going to return here someday, in the daylight. I’m going to come back to that spot & read the names on the gravestone…I want to know their names, the time in which they were alive. I want to imagine what they were like, whether they once took someone here to walk arm in arm with & to talk to…”

I said nothing, only held her hand a little tighter.

Our synchronised footsteps began to slow their pace as the graveyard gates came into view. Suddenly she stopped & pulled my hand towards her. In two quick movements we were pressed together, kissing. I pulled back and looked at her face, so utterly pretty beneath the night sky & the soft rainfall.

She smiled & looked away.

“I wonder, if they could’ve have known, how they would’ve felt about us doing what we just did…”

It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway:

“Darling, I can’t imagine that they would have been pleased at all. In fact, they probably would’ve thought it an act of desecration…but fuck what anyone else thinks: if I could, I’d have people performing the most indecent acts imaginable on my grave! What better way is there to laugh at death?”

We didn’t laugh. We lingered and I placed my hand gently on her arm, but since there was nothing left to do but separate, we said our goodbyes and she walked away from me.

I watched her walking, but before her body faded into a silhouette I turned and left: I didn’t want to ever know if she looked back.

* Suicide Bomber – Against Me!

A Moment

The lascivious flesh tempts
with its siren song of sex
as glorious escape
in flowering excess…

…so somewhere, there are
two lovers laid across a bed
& one turns to the other
& says:

“When people fuck, my love,
they can be placed into two
rough yet distinct groups:

those who pull closed & those
who leave open
their eyelids.

So my question to you is
which do you prefer?

For you
is the darkness
a sensual abyss
of pleasure in which
feeling is no longer limited
by form, a place
where sound, & touch
become something more,


for you are the closed
eyelids a rejection
of the real, raw,
unbridled animal passion;
a space in which
the look of fuck
in the eyes of the other
becomes another cascading layer?”

“Well” the other says
“I don’t see why
we must choose between
only two things;
I like both, I
like it all
fuck is no place for thought,

& my only desire is for more.

There is a sadness that I feel
in knowing
that the moment
cannot last forever…”

Then, in the silence
that follows
our two lovers smile
at each other
& lay back down upon the bed;

as fabric
is teased from flesh

& the moment
begins again…

“the limitless duration of that which existed”*

I remember
the taste of your insides,
the feel of your skin & the sunshine
dancing across mine

& I remember
how we held hands as we lay down & thought
about nothing but right then,
about right now

where there is blue,
& there is green all around
& there are strange sounds
flowing from our mouths

as we try to speak about
the creatures of our dreams,
try to tell each other how it feels
as we slip through the stream…

did you mean to say more that day?

Well never mind,
language is part guesswork anyway
& meaning is made from the strange non-substance
of the spaces in-between.

Did I mean to say more?

Well, of course, but really
who cares?

When right now,
right then,
for one

we were alive
together in the light.

* ‘Oblivion Seekers’ – Isabelle Eberhardt

Mother Mary

What do you all do with your days?

No, seriously
I want to know.

Me, I just seem
to let the minutes fade
& watch as the years run fierce
& true like mercury through
fingers destroyed in the process…

…through such space
& so much time
left to waste.

 here I am again
letting the rain
wash over my face…

What do you all do with your days?

Me, I wait
until the sunlight begins to fade
& then,
with alcohol, chemicals & weed
in place of rosary beads,
I begin my sinful prayer,
which goes like this:

“Hail, Mary,
full of grace,
let us talk
& fuck the night away;

because I need
animal reprieve
from the shadows
no eyes can see.”

& mostly she comes
(tho I must admit that,
despite my best efforts,
sometimes she doesn’t)

but Mother Mary
never stays with me.

she is not mine to keep.

She belongs to no one,
& there are lonely demons
haunting her dreams
just as they do to me.

I’m gonna smoke
yet another cigarette



in the rain,

& hope that this time
the water will wash me clean.

On the radio…

…De La Soul say:

“The sky takes notes when we speak/
Our capes move with the wind/
Because of the wings beneath”*

but I say:

the Sky does not give a fuck

about what I say or think;

small things

have been performing beneath her

graceful glare for more years than we

dare to imagine.


The Sky

does not care what we think.

The Sky

does not care about anything.

The Sky

just is…


We expire, conspire,

toil & adventure,

lose, love & live

before her.



She protects us from the vast

& endless, cold &

unfeeling empty

that surrounds us.


We should respect her more

because the Sky

is the nearest thing to a God

that we can ever hope for.


* ‘Royalty Capes’ – De La Soul



Anny says that “there are no more perfect moments”* but on my good days I still refuse to believe her.

There is heavy bliss to this hazy wish
for continuous moment, as we lie
open in a sunlight that slips from halo
to fingertips brushing against
the spider-web delicate surface of your skin.

& there is strange weight that this urge creates;
wanting to steal the scene from time
& climb inside the still-life with you, like
two ancient insects enclosed in amber,
our limbs entangled forever…

…but if this desire for permanence
is just a burning petulance
that stems from the base-thread;
if this tangled nervous-system has found
something greater than itself
only through means of itself,

well, then surely consciousness
is sensuous?

But right now, my love,
I could not give a fuck about such things!

Because right now,
I feel understood completely, &
right now
I can feel your pulse race beneath my touch
& I know that one day


So, before the world can worm its way
into the space always between us;
before time begins again

I want you to know
that although this moment
was always already gone from us,

this moment,
my love,

this was one of the perfect ones.



* ‘The Nausea’ – Jean Paul Satre


Awkward again,
only two people friends in the crowd, so
phone out again…

& if you listen a little too much just now;

the sounds burst free & blend together,
then splinter into circus images,

a series of moving shapes
mutating through malleable fluid,

forming warm silhouettes that sway
& swing beneath the false-warm sodium heather
of city-night plains that stretch out forever but
never reach the permanence horizon.

Filled with all the ugliness of
a failed lover demanding perfection
from moments of small prettiness,
we each play in the spectacle,


I think maybe I could be
overthinking this a little bit.

back from the bar; one hand gives a bottle
as two jaws move up & down & although I know that
speaking is being attempted, still the strange
is in their mouths as well

but then,
as always:
the change comes, colour
returns, the walls
retreat & the sound begins

to make sense again.

“That’s how we deal with boys like me”*

I no longer see why I should try not to relent

when the instinct kicks in:

fight or flight isn’t really a choice for boys like me


but anyway,

go ahead & tell me about the problems

that weigh you down;

tell me about the rivals

who know the sweet taste of your mouth,

the rivals

that share the secret of your insides…


Without you,

I can’t see why I should try not to think about

the old city, about that lost life

all the time;


like a bride deprived of sensation & sight

after the bitter disappointment of just another dismal,

cliche wedding night,

through the senseless everything

I run,





a bathetic, self-inflicted

fuck up;


I want oblivion


& to forget everything,


except that promise we made

in a dream I think I once had


*Despite What You’ve Been Told – Two Gallants