Ode to Ruby Rose


Your hair is sunlight

 

Illuminating your face

 

Strands like fingers

 

Supplying

 

Sweet caresses

 

To your skin

 

Of silken lace

 

 

 

Mine is brittle

 

Whose strands betray

 

And belittle

 

The pulp that lies

 

Beneath my eyes

 

Flesh ruddy and hostile

 

 

 

Your breath kisses the wind

 

Mine is stained with the scent

 

Of cigarettes and sin

 

I have lived amongst men

 

But love only women

 

You love none

 

More than yourself

 

And display your body

 

For a living

 

I display my mind

 

And am a dying monument

 

To life upon the shelf

 

 

 

Your eyes shine like cerulean

 

And the diamonds you wear

 

Suggest the wealth of your talent

 

If only I could rest my head

 

Between your breast’s

 

Heaves of submission

 

And be reborn as beauty

 

Love, truth

 

And death in remission

 

 

 

You are an illustrated woman

 

Your flesh frames

 

Each picture you portray

 

So, I read you with a lascivious look

 

Devour your painted form

 

Like an open book

 

And then I look again

 

And imagine

 

That you have stamped

 

My library card of a heart

 

With a kiss of approval

 

 

 

But you are no more real

 

Than the love I feel

 

When I gaze at photographs

 

Of you

 

For you are young

 

And I am too old and ugly

 

To be loved by one

 

As beautiful as you

 

The Nurse


I saw you wrap your cardigan

Around your hips

And wanted to be that cardigan

Binding your hips

My hands reaching for the comforting

Curves

Of your effervescent flesh

 

Playing love tunes

With strands of your hair

As it swept against

The rise and fall

Of your comely breasts

My skin warmed by the scent

Of your measured breaths

And your image strained

Inside

My cavernous thoughts

Like my hand on your flesh

 

I wanted to be

The last word on your tongue

Before you slept

Instead

You opened

Not your cardigan

Legs

But your mouth

And prescribed me a thousand milligrams

Of anti-madness

And an appointment with Dr Hart

Of darkest Ayrshire and Arran

In the first Gaelic Autumn

Of my Anglo –Saxon soul

And spiritual sickness

 

I DARE NOT SPEAK ITS NAME


The Lesbian

Reclining in satin sheets of purple yonder
My mind was locked between the nag of thought and the will to slumber
I knew not whether to sin I pray

A cigarette poised hungrily between my lips
I inhaled its forbidden pleasures
Like the scent of sex
Between temptation’s fragile hips
Only to extinguish it, like an illuminated candle wick

Scorched by flames of hell’s fire and unreason
An aromatic olfactory seizure
Of sensuous womanhood and images of naked human flesh
Impressed its vivid presence upon my perceptual prowess
Then I fell asleep and dreamed of being undressed
By the hands of a lascivious lover

Woken by whispers outside my room
“Let me come inside your maiden’s chamber
For I am the spirit of love and pleasure’s saviour”
I observed, standing before my frigid bed
A vision of such heaven sent beauty
That I wished myself dead

Praying to be freed of my grand illusion
I attributed its existence to thought intrusion
And my evident psychical confusion
“It is a sickness as old as womankind,”
Said my doctor, with sympathetic eyes

When, three months later we became betrothed
The mouth of the love, whose name I did not know
Was forever silenced
But my inner voice still speaks out and proud
In gay abandonment of my secret truth and imaginary life

If you have enjoyed reading my work, you might be interested in reading my first poetry collection.
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