May 29th, 2011


This morning's poem

Sore throat

I love to hear you sing, rich dark and clear.
At best there's tattered velvet in my voice
that suits my verse. If I could have the choice
I'd rather sing. Each has their own career;

we work with what we have. When I've a cold,
I work around it, slowly breathe, don't strain.
The catches in my throat are not a pain
they are expressive. You though cannot hold

those perfect notes, if some quite minor bug
floods through your throat. And I will stay away
and save affection for another day.
Although I'm fond of you, we will not hug.

Or kiss. I'll walk away and not infect
the strong pure voice you've worked hard to perfect.

Trying to make things clear about me and poetry


The woman that I love? She isn't you
Although she has your dark curls in my head.
When people read the hurt words that I've said
And call you cruel, tell them it isn't true

that you said some harsh crass unfeeling thing
It wasn't you, it was that bitch my muse.
I don't have to be sad, to sing the blues.
Nor be in love, exactly, when I sing

Love unrequited, love on which I'll pass -
a useful fiction. It is poetry
that gets me wet. Be flattered when I lie,
imply it's you. Your cheekbones and firm arse

win you reward that's better than a kiss
Deathless with Laura, Lesbia, Beatrice.