Travelling in Greece

Threecliffs Bay

Finally got round to editing this.

(WEAR SUN-TAN LOTION, ALWAYS).

Caswell Beach

Poem: What’s safe(st) to take?

For a long time

I would not go to bed.

I got used to it.

You probably remember those months

where I slept in your lap.

I dripped poetry while you dripped paint

and we dipped our finger tips

in wax

and pinched our skin black.

You would speak

and I would tell you

the taste of it.

For old time’s sake,

Which part of your body

Does this poem go to?

Your fingers or teeth,

The top of your chest,

your throat? Does it touch your face?

I thought you were brave in your

Woman’s jeans, but I found

more comfort in your whimpering screams

in the dark.

Our words were soothing

For each other. Then what?

You told me what was safe to take

And what not to take, or do.

But who told you?

For as long as I let it. And I do.

Despite it being our only home

and our new family.

If that stranger above

our window ever jumps.

I’ll come back for you,

and this time I’ll tell you!

I’ll tell you not to take it

and I’ll tell you what to do.

Poem: Lovingly Degraded

I once heard someone say

to my friend

“I want to lovingly degrade you.”

And my friend replied,

calm and collected:

“I don’t know my own Father,

so that’s fine by me.”

And here I am again,

in Cambridge, wondering

which direction

promises this conversation,

or at least a cab,

a God,

a merciless mouth.

I walk.

It’s the potential I’m

in love with. The anticipation

of not knowing a soul,

or more importantly

a face.

What turns them on?

Attention (not affection) normally.

Is there a difference?

I certainly don’t care which.

But I don’t like being heartless.

I’m not good at it.

I quit.

I’m quite sure you’ll die 

a modern death,

although I’d like to see you

'happen'.

But you’re not as heavy as the books -

Or as happy.

Even with those heavy

black boots

In a calm procession of

Darling and Honey.

No matter how much money

they throw at us

I fear you’ll always be lovingly degraded.

And I’ll degrade myself.

I’ll be loving.

On behalf of you.

__________________________________

I keep starting new poems before I have time to finish previous ones. I'm literally drowning in half finished, terrible poetry. 

As a rule, I normally post one poem for every ten I write, but in this case, this is the only one I've finished, so I didn't have a lot of choice.

Deal with it.

Lost in London

Remember when we got
the eighteen past eleven train
from Cambridge
to Kings Cross.
And somewhere between
Tottenham Court
and Soho
we got lost?

And you got really angry
because you swore
you knew
the way.
And you wouldn't stop
apologising
no matter
what i'd say.

But this place that
you had taken me
really was
perfection.
Despite being
20 minutes walk
in the wrong
direction.

And you know
how well attached we are
to the feeling of being
intangible.
And that feeling
followed us round
that night,
"I'll do what you command me to."

And I broke the
law that night
I counted in
my head.
As I swam through
all the feelings -
sensations
I thought were dead.

Remember looking
through a window
at a stranger in
Pulp Fiction?
And we talked about
distracting him
while you stole food
from his kitchen.

But instead we just
discussed in depth
our love for
Christopher Walken.
And decided
that it must be fate
to have this much
in common.

And we spent 3 nights
in London,
proud of our
spontaneous-ness.
And we never
got to Soho,
but we swelled with our
self righteousness.

Clyne Gardens

Trip to Clyne Gardens in Swansea, Just 10 minutes on the bus from the university.

Viewer discretion advised: There is some really hard hitting tragedy at the end.