(I wanted this to be condensed.)
You love the thought of me lying
prone and unselfconscious
on the borderline of sleep;
your mind, now foul with cigarettes
now washed completely with remorse
wants to cut reality at root;
transplant the intensity of days
to a sweeter breeze
as I dream you lift the chord
to frequencies that shatter
and poetries that feed;
only you're still cherishing
modern introductions
to those age old texts
slipping on the point of sacrilege
(I love the thought of you daring)
the retreat to enrapture:
we're always doing it,
waltzing the subliminal around
Soul to Angel
I'm fatalistic about disappointment,
the fact that one day it may fade,
this room in which I knew I'd find you;
all the small sufficiencies of faith
fractured into derelict desserts.
You're away now, slowly resigned
to ulterior subsistence, pocketed
by ghostly partnerships, aligned
to recharacterisation as lack
and the absence of softness on edge.
I'll storm thought, my preparation
course, studying how best to please
imagistic hokum, the retorts
gleaming in idleness, spelling
admiration, amber, doused alone.
There is an arrhythmia to longing;
systole and diastole, low leaps
up to a clean fluidity of hope
spoiling the immunity of ice,
arrowing over these grey clouds.