Tuesday, 28 June 2011

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
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,
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

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