Love Poem #9
Look how quiet the room is: the cats
are playing their games up the curtains
and over my table, knocking plates
and cups across the carpet; the radio
advertises insurance and cars, vacuums
to suck the dried rice from the floor.
I sit and watch the fish, each shadow
a life behind the green scum collected
on the glass. Current no longer skips
the water into waves; I sip my coffee,
wipe the cold libation from my chin.
When the phone rings you switch me on:
orchestrate a tango of muscles behind lips
and tongue; redeem my personality from hock
and get me to stretch its seams as we chat
on the phone about nothing much at all.
Love Poem #10
It was a dopamine rush at first sight.
You stood there in tight jeans and boots,
a phenylethylamine scowl menacing the room
to dance to your demands. I worshipped
you there and then in chemicals of lust
and took you down without a thought
for consequences: the future was fucked
in any case and licking pheremones
from your shoulder pots was good.
I didn't ask for the oxytocin to leak
from my skull, to infest my vesicles
with a desire to cuddle your body tight.
Nor did I beg my nerves to flood my cells
with vasopressin, blocking all my plans
to seek new flesh to scrape. But I'll thank
the gods of chemistry for endorphins - sweet,
taut molecules that keep me close to you.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Just a couple more ...
...love poems. Sorry. I expect most people have already abandoned any pretence of visiting or reading this website. The stench of poorly executed love poetry must be nauseating. Well tough! This is becoming an obsessional thing with me: I am going to write a good love poem even if I have to pretend I'm an infinite number of monkeys. Life is, indeed, a bitch.