dying for a kiss

this last kiss

for a moment

has us bound

a silver saliva chain

stretching from your lip to mine

your earlier suspicion

has succumbed

to the gentle coaxing

of my would-be whispered words

my lip brushing your velvet ear

your wine breath

my tongue

we digest the moment

figuring its resonance

weighing the power of our feelings

anatomical responses

blood flushing

into pale places

reddening faces

heating fluids

you dissolve a little

as I brush the thread aside

feeling the strand across the back

of my hand

then our fingertips touch

sense the trace of moisture

before once again

we land soft wet lips

on each other's

open mouths

and beneath the softness

the hard edge of teeth and jaw and bone

of hunting

of eating

of chase

of resolution

this grimy kiss

asks and answers

its one question

who are you?

and why are you so separate from me?

that says

in our coming together

we must

come apart

that in our longing

we must live without

that as it is born

because it is born

so it must die

but not yet

not yet 

let me yet feel

once more

the lithe live flesh

moving muscles

over my skin

seeking the pleasure

that it alone provides

to the book lover, a response

you love books

you tell me

the feel of them

the smell of them

the holding of them

in your hands

the stories they tell

yet

although I have 

a spine

for you to run your fingers down

although I would 

whisper my passion into your ticklish ears

and although I have

pictures to paint in your mind's eye

and although I would

hold you between covers

caress the creamy 

vellum of your skin

between clean white sheets

although I would draw you in

on long winter nights

make love to you by firelight

or by summer moonlight

I would ignite you

bite you

tease you

touch you

stroke you

make you laugh

make you cry

make you yearn 

for my longing arms

for the warmth of my strong thigh

the soft beat 

from the taut drum

of my chest

although I would

be the author of our lives together

and you my heroine

wrapped in a golden shawl

windswept and wild

with a diamond light in her eye

brought to singing life 

with my tender pen

despite all this

you have eyes

only for another fiction

julia

I have a hard time

containing

my feelings for you

julia

for they are

as liquid as night

as ferocious as hunger

as dark as revenge

as cheap as choking

they are the colour 

of the red wine stains

on your inner lip

they smell of excess

and taste of dawn

they are wrapped 

in last year's paper

and still 

somehow

draw last year's tears

they threaten

and cajole

and generally

fuck about

with my

peace of mind

so I will burn

these feelings

julia

and toss the pasty ashes

into the river

where we stood

on the bridge

and you

spat my longing

back at me

julia

and then 

walked away 

laughing

Knight visitor

There is thunder in the air tonight

and I have written all night long

to reach you.

For I have scaled this tower

and am the silhouette

against the curtains.

I have groped my way

in the darkness

to find your bed.

Do you see the blood

pouring from my wounds?

How the thorns scratched.

Do you see the moonlight

shining on my naked skin?

My armour lost.

Do you feel the subtle chill

as the bedclothes lift

from your sleeping body?

I stand here

and place your cold hand on me –

feel the instinctive gripping

like an infant’s fingers

round an adult thumb.

Then my thumb

parts your lips –

the hard-edged teeth,

the soft tongue,

the slow silent

sucking of the lips;

hot, wet.

These calloused

bloodstained

hands

open the book of you,

unfold you like a map,

fingers navigating the contours of hills,

the courses of valleys,

to the warmest caverns,

caressing the petals

of this fleshy blood red rose

gaping open

to the burning rain.