ontologically silly

"I’ll write something new today partly

because I want to but mostly because

the morning is nice and I suppose that’s what

I do on a sunny day, so of course I go for

a walk and find our spot on Murchison square

where I met you once to give you a coffee

before we fell in love – measuring

out the bits of myself I

give to you in poorly rolled cigarettes and 

the sky is exactly the colour of a negroni which you hate 

and it hits your face and your copy

of “The Arcana Of Reproduction” and I

didn’t know anyone could be so wonderful when

I call them a wanker

Maybe this one I show you, maybe you take

a look at the naivety of the prose and say

I’m ripping off Frank O’Hara again

maybe that’s true but you still let it slide

because you love me and you know there

is so much left to do and

you still haven’t finished The Inseparables

yet, you need to tell your sister you love her

I'll see a man and his kid, while i’m walking

back past the terraces, grandkid maybe, 

six years old or thereabouts, the two of them smiling like anything,

just transfixed as the garbos drive past

Sometimes I think its still that evening in the depth of June

Early winter morning, glass frosted in the dark

 we will talk till im all out of lies to tell.

Start speaking of home of dads pasta, the dogs that bark

like cats that just learned how.

and if i told you about the waves — 

me skinnydipping in the gully, the smell of a book     

that never gets opened. If I told you about the waves,

really told you– just the look of them –  i wonder.

You'd turn and look,

every page is another drop of sewerage onto virgin sand, 

look now at a forgiven sky. 

The stars aren't waves at all,  you'd say           

just a page sliced over

bare fingertips.

Cup the shape of me between yours, my Thomas More

All there is is this;

A voice said find Him, God,

maybe, probably. 

probably it was God and probably He was you. 

Still I knew what it meant, I 

saw you like I was just learning sight again. Your

lips were a language I didn’t understand. Us falling,

stumbling back from dinner. Us in the garden.

Us under shades of fig trees, Us in the 

temple at the ends of the Earth. 

Head back for me, Love. You said, I

was on my knees again. You put your bread to

my lips and I took it. Took it like

a man past starving, past survival. It was

your blood in my mouth,

mine in yours. Tell me I'm the one

who has you like this. You said

three things unsatisfied. Four things,

you couldn’t name, it is enough.

Sunk with the weight of stigmata, your 

hands now pulling at my chin. But this

is all – this is all; your flesh 

goes down easy, you are my kingdom. 

My carnality, my blood and my pain. I see you

spit the remnants.