Written in approximately two minutes, whilst waiting for my girlfriend to turn up: that’s not related to the ‘poem’ itself, just an idle bit of information. There isn’t really much new about this poem, but is instead a simple thing, a brief moment of concentration, to try and keep what creativity I can boast alert.
‘Poetry Lies This Way’;
paper flickers against the wall
like a creature possessed,
by the whims of a greater thing;
if anything were greater than such a fiction.
Poetry cannot survive the cold,
cannot leap like sparkles, or flutter from frost-blackened hands,
heavy with ice and stilted blood.
mulled wine and tea cannot revive,
with a sudden, infantile lust.
The urge passes,
like all such urges must be weathered,
like a storm must be hidden from
and insanity must be shared, enjoyed.
I am cold. Satan
coats me with debilitating dust;
it sparkles over my hunched and shivering form.
Oh, you coldest of flesh!
Your delicious promise of the breast,
warming these hands with poetry,
as though that were a feasible thing!
For me, I would ask for your flesh in total
and I would replace this sewn blanket
with your musk,
and reject all notions of a solitary norm;
for the poetry of your lips of mine.