Saturday 18 September 2010

Je t'aime




Je t'aime

Have you ever fallen so deeply in love with someone
the very thought of them possesses you, obsesses you?
You seek every morsel from the table,
every scrap, each half eaten remnant,
until,in a final, unbridled, unhinged
reciprocation of that rabid affection,
you tumble, without reason,
into a rabbit hole of ecstasy.
The flame rises from the pit,
consuming you completely.
The mere presence of the idea of them,
sends your palpitating heart, racing,
threatening to pull it from your chest,
bursting in a blaze upon the ground,
consuming all in an ashen flame of wanton desire.

The absence of them,
The eternity of that dark and desperate place,
flings your soul, flailing, into a pit of despair.
A place where the knot in your gut,
rises, lifting into a choking lump in your throat,
around which hangs a noose of your own design.
Screaming as it tightens.
Echoes of a gathering storm,
a foul and pestilent tempest,
that rolls in from the edge of insanity.
forged in the distance of time and space,
that empty place between you.
...and you know if it lengthens,
when you drop from that gallows,
it will break your neck.

Love comes in waves.
Crashing over you titanically.
Leaving you awash,
in a sea of uncontrollable irrationality.
You sleep,
but you don't really sleep...
you dream in a rolling sea of a foaming tide.
You long in your dreams for that breath,
the breath of your lover upon your chest...
the glint in the half light of his eye, captured,
as he blinks through the tempest,
and winks at you from across the bed,
the pillow his head now rests upon,
in the shimmering twilight of your minds eye...
staring...
in a whirling haze of kisses and sensual embraces.

You find yourself waking up,
in the half light of a half night,
a one eyed tremor ticking in your mind,
wondering why you are alone,
when the only thought you have,
in that moonlit space,
is of this mans hands holding you,
firmly rooted, enfolding your softness,
as you, pushing into him with all your might,
rage, with the fire in your blood in that second sight

Then, When you finally have him,
when that torment of distance is broached,
and desires bridge, spans, times great divide,
those first, wet, exploratory kisses,
lashed in an unquenchable fire,
slip, and dip, in a swirling maelstrom of desire.
Your mind, cocktailized,
every hormone dumped into your trembling frame...
when that finally happens,
you realize that you have never been touched before.
You are a virgin again.
Every hand, and every man, who ever came and went,
slip into the night, shadowy phantoms...
lost in a remnant of a fractured past,
shattered and dulled,
by the sensual bliss of this mans kiss.
This, sex, that rises in tides,
crashing upon some ecstatic shore of transcendence,
blinds you, binds you,
as a sea is bound to the seething hiss upon the sand.
The blinding epiphany of it, illuminates,
not because of the way in which he now touches you,
or how you yield to him...
sinking your folds into every tautness,
for if that were so, any man would do...
no!...it is the core of you, awoken,
the primal essence erupting,
wildly aroused beyond all and any reason,
there is no reason, no mind, no will,
just an epiphanic moment of irresolvable ecstasy,
a divine gift, a primal union of heaven and earth,
thrusting itself through your core,
every nerve, every sinew, every fiber of your being,
trussed and bound deeply inside this man...
you are in him, you are him, he is you,
the lines and demarcations blurred eternally,
His pleasure erupting inside you as your own,
erupting inside what is left of you;
In that moment of sublime coalescence,
the gift, is the essence, of the get.
For Love has joined the game,
and you know with a certainty,
you will never, ever, be the same.

The rich and heady waters of love,
decimate the walls... torch the town,
rape and pillage the sanctity, the certainty,
all will, strewn in a corpulent rubble,
beneath its flaming waves.
Every petty sensuality, exposed as shadow and sham,
to disappear forever in a fever of truth.
In the dazzling light of complete surrender,
a trust divine, two souls entwined, Love Rules.

Every tawdry orgasm,
each and every titillating simulacrum,
becomes a pale and impotent shadow,
caught in the dazzling light of this numinosity.
It demands everything and promises nothing...
but without it, nothing is all thats left.
Without it, no one can write of pleasure,
and truly understand what pleasure means.
Without it, there is no life...
just a dull pettiness,
a failure of existence,
a wasteland of wasted moments.
Without Love to stoke the sensual hearth,
all Eros is death.
Death, born on the wings of fleeting desire,
shattered in the depths of a void without fire.
Love, life in the heart and soul of another.
The 'other', your lover,
In that man, whose hands are a memory,
strangling your every waking moment,
choking the air from that place,
in that face of forgetfulness,
blue, in the distractions of you.
You try to forget,
but even on that gallows drop,
you cannot stop.
There is no forgetting Love.

je t'aime

© Richard Michael Parker 2010



Friday 17 September 2010

The Cleaner

The Cleaner

Fingers brushing inside me
slipping over corpulent flesh
drawing forth the memories of refinement
and firing the souls of half remembered epiphanies,
ripping them from some silent hearth,
fueled in the dark,
by a light that glows true and bright.
Love...
brought into a present, tense,
and relaxed,
beneath your sculptured fingers of bliss.
Delving within the locked rooms,
the hidden corridors of a dusty old house,
flinging wide the curtains from aged windows,
sweeping in an instant,
the cobwebs, and dust-devils,
from that chaliced palace.
You are the cleaner of my soul,
wiping away the torrid years,
and filling the reckless hole.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Tuesday 14 September 2010

Does She?

Does She?

Does she love me?
I do not know...can we ever know?
does she care when this belly aches?
when this snake coils around,
all those mistakes!
when i wake with a start,
and that golden dream departs.
does she feel it too?
when my gold turns to blue.
when i lie awake,
my head spilling over some great waterfall,
does she stall?
thinking of me but for a moment,
before flitting ceaselessly onward.
Does she feel this too,
at a distance,
does it break through?
like some spiritual amputee,
as the chainsaw cuts into the tree.
does she understand?
this pebbled shore im left on,
is not my land.
as she waved into the sky,
smiling as she said goodbye.
taking bits of me on high...
leaving me in pieces down below,
my heart and mind tossing too and fro.
Does she Know?
a shipwreck every morning i awake,
no solace in this anguish,
a doubt i cannot banish,
and still, no sign from yonder shore.
does she love me?...Does she know the score?
Does she...?

© Richard Michael Parker 2009

Monday 13 September 2010

Trash

Trash

A plastic cup, submerged, still and lifeless,
only meters from where an old green bucket
lay nonchalantly on its side in the slick oily water,
the ground littered with carelessness,
a gathering wasteland of old detritus
discarded pasts of present joys left
for future generations to confess,
the arrogance and ignorance, bereft.
The packaging of innocent decadence,
littering the grounds of a manipulated recompense.
The over abundance of a formulated struggle
a strangulation of individualist egoism
imbalanced consumerism, bereft of mutual identity,
cut adrift from a temporal reality.
The severed ties, remain like chaff in the wheat.
Unwinnowed, inedible, in a collective retreat.
As the leaves fall upon the Autumnal ground,
the remnants of summers past,
lies littered in human folly,
unable to decompose,
the cacophony of a discordant mindset,
a rhapsody of disharmony
in natures cyclic symphony.
The human tree that sheds and shits
endlessly upon itself,
This dis-composition of effect,
stripped away from it's causes,
a decomposing social fabric,
evident in the trash left behind.
Unable and unwilling to cleanse itself,
of half remembered, half forgotten,
tokens and totems, remnants of an ill bred past
an imbalanced offering to our children,
future echoes of regret.
Time enough to clean it up,
time enough to wash it down.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Sunday 12 September 2010

The Old Wooden Bridge


The Old Wooden Bridge

Where the silver birch
and the rotunda meet
by the trickling stream
you will find wild trout
suckling at the waters lip
surrounded by bull-rushes
rustling with the oaken leaves
delicately warbling with young chaffinches
in their first summers flight,
dancing in the treetops of light,
swaying to the beat,
of the wind waves,
heaving through the branches and the heat.
There, i will sit,
upon the old wooden bridge,
in the forgotten corner,
to watch the squirrels, red,
forage amongst the detritus,
the undergrowth,
the manicured ground,
littered with remnants
of passing days, halcyon nights,
hoping too and fro,
between the discarded past
and futures bright dance;
A wasteland of remembrance.
Sometimes,
to stop at the waters edge,
to sip at still rivulets,
in the afternoon heat,
blissfully bounding ever onward,
over root and bark alike.
in this corner, preen and green,
quietly nestled in the midst of a modern age,
Sometimes, the ancient archive, is alive.
Natures purest ways, the Iskonski,
existent in peaceful slumber,
a restive remembrance
amongst the cacophony,
of an unbridled chaos,
littering futures,
with a present carelessness.
Yet, natures ancient ways, remain.
Where the silver birch
and the rotunda meet
by the trickling stream
you will find wild trout
suckling at the waters lip,
under the shade,
of the Old Wooden Bridge.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010