Saturday, 19 March 2011



This dark horse,
pulling me with chaotic power,
unseen purpose, it lights a fire,
and in those flames consumes the certainty,
the sanctity of reason.
With foaming mouth, and broken halter,
this unbridled beast,
bucks the reigns,
spits the bit,
until in frantic seizure,
it rips the fleshy hands,
and soils the bloodied mitt.

A dangerous embrace,
no distant than the crawling of my skin,
the echo of the screams within,
bleeding down the walls,
erected to withhold its might,
yet, this frantic race,
upon the ominous dark paths of night,
is my turning away,
and in that flaming vision,
all i have blinkered,
all i have forestalled,
feeds the full power of its yearning,
until unyoked it consumes me in its burning.

To know in an instant,
the wild equine twin,
the snap in the tightening reins,
the temper of its wanton virtue,
the fulcrum of the shadows within,
heaving against his ghosted brother,
in flighted desperation from 'the other'.

Screaming along this cliff faced ledge,
this twined monstrosity,
A driven chariot of speed,
pulls me ever onward,
beyond my willful need,
fighting against its primal verve,
Courage!, to steel my nerve,
or, in letting go,
see this carriage so long designed
tumble heedlessly into the precipice,
scream into the rocks below.
Whoa!... slow!,
slow, white cousin,
guide your wild companion,
calm his raging sea,
with all the might of your will and certainty.
Show him the course of your way,
and let not his wild aspirations deter you,
harness that wild power,
that two may guide us past this tempests hour,
across this rocky path,
and in the perigee of that moonlit night,
wild and fraught, full of windswept howls,
the lightning screams of thunderous hooves;
pass beyond this ledge of personal treachery.

To find the calm of that open road once more,
the sure lit illumination of a wiser Sun,
and in that frightening breach, that endless reach,
to know that no soul comes by the light,
but through the shadowplay of its own feral night.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2011


Friday, 18 March 2011

Live Verse

Live Verse

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m with you,
I want to live it.
I want to finger every rhythm and rhyme,
and suckle you in couplet,
diving into your metaphor,
and thrusting out the meter,
in live verse.

To feel your soft poignancy,
the depths of your allegory tremble,
with each syllable that passes these lips,
slipping into you orally,
sliding down each auricle,
awakening the fires breach,
erupting inside you through speech.

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m with you,
I want you to live it,
be it, the poem on my tongue,
the rhythm and rhyme as you come, to me,
in heaving dripping whelps of desire,
sated on this linguists tongue of fire.

Rising in the tide of a poets lust,
moaning out the lines of each guttural thrust,
the flame, the fire, licking ever higher,
this penetrating hunger and need,
to reach down, and on your knees,
take this potency deep inside you,
and succulently feed.

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m in you,
I want to feel you squirm beneath it,
and shudder as I broach your inner sanctity,
entering your deepest intimacy,
sucking at the words on my lips
with full unbridled passion of a poets kiss.

Soaking your soul in a sopping mass,
of quivering ecstasy, screaming uncontrollably,
as the verse explodes inside of you.
Turning you over, stretching you out,
pounding your splayed defences,
surging through every unctuous doubt.

I don’t want to write poetry when your on me,
I want to live it, love it, lust for it,
watch it ride in rapture,
rising inside you, squeezing in a sopping tide,
until you shudder with the thunder of the verse,
and burst, gripping the transcendence in your sodden purse.

If I wrote you a poem with invisible ink,
that slipped upon the palette of your body,
through the feather quill guide of my tongue,
would it be any less memorable,
for having been written in flesh?

© Richard Michael Parker 2010