the extent of my needs

in their precocious browns the leaves -

in precious golds  - they shoot thru the air

like messengers of seasons in the making

another layer flaking off the tablet of time

 and heading groundwards

for to feed bugs of today,

grass blades of next week and

making me

a bed of dirt for when the carousel runs no more

and i upgrade to a raft on lethe

it’s a saturday,

sky diaphanous seemingly devoid of atmosphere

we recline and showcase our best symposium etiquette under the delicate weight of how elegantly we dip lentil balls in hummus

- how comfortably we share secrets, perhaps because for strangers

blabbing out the truth is the only way to carve radiance out of the dark of anonymity

or

because in our history of no more than an hour we’ve already unearthed hidden affinities

that accelerated intimacy somehow, adding an element of

fate to what was gonna be but a triple x date

like the fact that both of our names contain, in different languages,

the word for people

or that despite a shared love for autumn in melbourne,

neither of us is ready for this one yet

oxytocins dance like sufis in the aura of this our first meet

hormones parade like a springtime fair and

whenever I go to roll a cigarette you ask ‘want some dope in there?’

and each time my reply is ‘why not…’

until the green grass acts on my behalf and

spills my beans for me, figuring honesty will buy me your love,

or something along those lines

‘kiss me’, i say

‘but we’re not fucking tonight’

i am on the hunt for a narrative - a tale to take home

not just your smell on my skin,

not just a palette of bodily fluids

the gay business card…

even though fuck only knows

the extent of my need for touch

i could map it out for you, unroll it in the shape of a lust-red carpet for you to pace upon,

and man, you’d catwalk a long while,

from here to satisfaction the path is infinite and the trajectory divine-abolical

especially if you, like me, set out to travel it anyway,

disregarding

the compass of the humble and wise that warns:

beware! the stomach of want will always be ravenous

you’d better learn to go hungry and pretend you couldn’t possibly

take another morsel, be it a bit of art, of ass or grass, human heat, or god’s touch

so be my guest, feel my unrest

not just my cock thru these denim pants,

because i never thought i’d ever beg and plea for less flesh and more soul

less feeling up and more feeling full stop

but I am

shame you have to be my first nay

after so many aye’s

spat out with automatic eagerness,

pity, really, that the ultimatum of the heart that feels left out and claims his share

should land on your ears, that the hand unwelcomed should be yours,

a gentleman’s hand