BUT NOT IN ANY PLATONIC SENSE

BUT NOT IN ANY PLATONIC SENSE

forgive me
I lacked the
sexual imagination
to initiate proceedings

the sexual
sensitivity to
get
swallowed whole

in the process
delivering entire
spectrum of
hard
and soft
impressions

leaving me
under the unmistakable impression

that I delivered
something so hard
its truth
can never
be forgotten

an yet so soft —
imparted something
so soft

odds on you will be
duly compelled to
remember forever

a beauty
co-created, but
not
in any
Platonic sense

TIGHT

TIGHT

you are tight
your poem
is
tight

it feels
just right

but then
you let go

open up
allow to
flow

and so
softly I float

on a cloud
as I watch
you
prepare

to launch
all those metaphors

head
for the stratosphere

RAP SEX TEST

RAP SEX TEST

I’ll never
be any good
as a rapper
cannot
find a sex-
word

to rhyme
with clit

looking hard, hard, hard
as hard as
I possibly can
but seems like
no hope of
finding it
the pages of
my thesaurus soaked

after giving every
word such a thorough
going over
subjecting each and
every peach of a noun
verb, modifier or
epithet

to my
orgasmically intense
total tongue (and lip) test.

DOUBLY SO

DOUBLY SO

words:
last thing love
needs; last thing
passion requires

so, in this instance, bear
with me
I am going to consider
every word here might
serve as a kiss

and hopefully
you will indeed
find some of these
word kisses
best at both
their arts

even that if not
individually, but
as a collective

they will prove
most apt, decidedly intimate,

find
your path
of least resistance

amongst them that word,
that special, special word

able to
convert to my cause
win
you over

find that resonance
deep
inside you

BABEL

BABEL

as always, stuff
towering above us
thinking
they are scraping the stratosphere
but it just another monument to folly

they will say
(barely a moment before they tumble)
their be no truth
to this accusation
no foundation

and how they would love
to airbrush us out of this
and practically every other tableau
vignette and
stock-in-trade snapped picture

delete us
then tell the world we were never here

who made our mark
in that long grass, following the flow of
conjoined bodies as if we were amalgam of rivers
as if we were
meeting the sea in gorgeous delta

whilst
these towers fall
and yet
still crop up

popping up out of the ground to blossom
into all about us creatures that is utter absurdity

as I navigate your belly
I sing that old London Bridge nursery rhyme

such things poetically speaking really
line of least resistance

all those languages missing each other
in nuance of translation

need for libraries of philology huge,
in number enough
to fill the Universe

WHEREUPON

WHEREUPON

then did
we
bounce joyously

joyfully kick clocks
out of our cot

move through
every alliterative connection

and then, ah,
the assonance

whereupon
the mystery so
adroitly, copiously solved

OPUS

OPUS

I peppered you
with poetry

but not
a stitch came off
not an inch
of cloth

and yet
I wrote
and wrote
and wrote
and sent

writing prouder, finer
with each refusal

Oh, at this rate,
my dear
it would be
safe to say

you will
never get to see
let alone
touch, taste, smell,
hear, feel

the mighty words
of my magnum opus!

ENDGAME

ENDGAME

we in the endgame now baby!

all those pieces back in the box
made the supreme sacrifice
though their
captures not
necessarily sacrificial

so much space
the bishops, the rooks
feel like they are driving down a freeway
in a convertible
wind coursing through
their hair

(if they
actually had air)

so much space to explore but
no place to hide

a whole different kind of thinking here
more elegant in being
stripped of so many
(so number-crunch many) permutations

and talking of stripping

here it is what it is

one of us tonight is going
to mate the other

worst fate one can think of
in the regime of the game, but

outside, in

the giddy realm of metaphor
an entirely different, zero non plus, win

win proposition

MISSED

MISSED

good at life
this a logical consequence
if good at chess
which is
what the King
of the boars, Gary
Kasparov says

a winning mentality
loving
the game
surprising moves
never
the predictable,
never the same

loving
the game

loving
you too

would sacrifice
a pawn, a knight, a bishop
a rook, my queen
every day
of the week

to win your too

thinking
all those missed moves
chances for victory
spurned

better at chess
better
best at sex
this I would argue though
in Kasparov’s book
never actually read

unless the page
where it said
blundered right through
missing this key, key
text

unless
not
without hope

still in
with a chance, have
to believe
it

never too late in the game to save
what appears as seemingly untenable position