detail from: KRK Art dizajn

Standard Deviations.

If I was taller by an inch, by a centimetre, would you love me

More

Or less.

And shorter by two inches, aha five point eight of important centimetres,

Less now your love or

More, perhaps, perhaps not?

And my nose, this thing, supporter of specs,

sniffer of speculation,

Heaven scent or hellish big,

Which do you feel

And more, or less, admit?

And now the million dollar question,

The stuff of jokes,

The ass, my ass,

Too big in these,

Too small?

Dare you tell the truth

As you see it

And I fear it,

And both in complicit lying

Deny.

So taller, shorter,

Rounder, thinner,

State your preference

Without fear or favour

And for once or twice

Wouldn’t it be nice

To savour

The truth of how you see and feel

And how I feel

About how you feel about.

So your love is measured in centimetres

And denim trouser, mini-skirted backsides,

Such a miss then for those Don Juanker, Byron types.

Statistics,

Vital.

Ah yes you love my soul,

A good and charming way

Of denying

That my ass is too protruding

My nose too intruding

Tall stories then

Short of fact

Is this what your love lacks

Yes, no, maybe,

You cannot win,

Your magazines made me what I am not,

And now you suffer

My sad small,

Or are they large,

Insecurities.

Vanity

Unfair.

Inventory of Dawn

I

For months I have known we were emerging together

appearing

You exist more and more,

like the world from dawn,

In the afternoon you are like iron

Solid and un-shifting,

not like sand at all in that hour-glass

your being lasting longer than the memory of loss

 (world FROM dawn)

II

There are always ebbs

Always tides

Always dawns

And always nights

Misty mornings

Red skies

followed by moons

Full or crescent

Always appearings

And disappearings

Their coming and going

Toing and froing

People discussing Michelangelo

Of loss of loss

Of gain of benefits

She emerged

Appearing

And appearing more

And appearing more

Becoming more solid

Like an antonym

To shifting sands

Constant

Solid

The dawn

And her smile

The noon-day

Searching with brutal honesty

Of those tall enough

To stand without shadow

with Sun reposing upon their head

As the clock struck twelve

She emerged,

appeared,

became

and I uncovered

an inventory of

dawn

Come hold my hand

Come hold my hand
Come need my smile
As the river needs confluence
As our spring needed US
Come and be an inexplicable de-light
After a long dark night
You are a silent song
Im singing under the full moon
The undeniably beautiful
Black moon
Which saw us depart
Into the wide seaside
Hold our rudder
Oh my captain, hold it tight
Lets not get immersed into 
This liquid metal night
Full of memories of starry eyes 
Lets stay overground
Travel overseas
With undeniable delight
We are sailing
We are sailing
Right into the sunrise
East cradles a drop of water
On its bright palm
And here we are
Imagined or real sailors
Narrating our story of unexpected tides,
fall and rise...
Do the words matter at all?
Or is it the touch of Your hand
And the rumour of Your heart
That resolves all the puzzles of the night?
Come, hold my hand
Come, need my smile
Come, be my spring
In winter time.

The Gift

His gift for her

Was a comb for her long, long hair

Her gift for him

Was a fob chain for his precious watch

To give her this beautiful comb

He has sold his watch

To give him the chain the fob for his

Most precious watch

She has sold her long long hair

I don’t remember

When I heard that story

But as I look at the Moon

I think of someone

And I think

She would have done that for me

But would I have done that for her?

Oh, God, forgive me

I hope so.

The Gift III

Ah, the alcohol, the mistress

They call it the eternal triangle:

The wife, the mistress, the man.

But the new... its always good to have

The new thing

The eternal quadrilateral:

the wife, the mistress, the man

and the seductive witch called Whiskey.

Whiskeva – the water of life.

And what will come next?

Whose head will be cut off?

The wife

the mistress

the alluring bottle of single malt?

The wife will change

She`ll grow, she`ll become

The mistress will no longer

Be content to be mistress

Single malt constant ever

Such are the stupid poetic.

Poetic? Amusings

Saturday night

Sees its passing and waits

Sunday morning

Sunday morning

Oh Christ

Sunday is the day before Monday!

Im not sad.

Because Im blessed and loved.

In different ways.

And I also have a healthy cup

Of honey, warm water and

Of course

A little whiskey.

Good night world.

Good night all.

Good night.

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