Three AM

Late running slurred words, blurring, blooming
exactitudes I cannot calculate,
stores of pathways in a distribution,
simply awaiting one more dimension -

there is always another of freedom:
particular coherence decoheres,
entangled with environment; the wave
of the universal floods all cellars.

Oh, if this late hour, gathering up time,
could be trafficked upon a destiny
which would take me too, bloodshot and bolshy,

buzzing with nothing, transcending the pain -
which I will feel again with waking soon,
too soon, you gone for ever, breaking me.

How Does it Feel?

So then it seems that hate starts to decay
when memories have ceased their kicking claws,
the disemboweling pains easing away,
leave plain misery behind, like stretch marks.

Now it would be my choice to remember;
but likely I would steer away from that,
because I miss you so, without reference
to our two year life together, just twined

inside like a wire, now stripped and bared
in an empty room after the workers
have long gone and their tea stains have dried in.

Or as right at the end of The Tempest,
the scenery turns out to be his words
winging their way - and we all deserve more.

Delusion. Bubble, Gift, Shard

A single piece of cloth I dreamt I found;
and yet it was both top and trousers too;
and held above a fan it billowed round,
until it swelled into the form of you.

Well, no. It was the dream girl who fled me.
And now I gripped side, leg, buttock, attuned;
first squashing, then like squeezing a balloon...
Oh! It was flesh - and you / she broke free;

and lay upon the bed, distant in dream,
couldn't fathom at all how she got there,
rejected all erotic overtures.
Then I realised what it all might mean:-

somatic shards and darkness in my head
as empty clothing settled on my bed.