Perhaps, drunk with my death,
Yet death my drinking partner,
Passed me every refilled cup,
Every tankard foaming after.
Death who did the yeasting,
Death who farmed a barley,
Soul-beer for our feasting,
Prone to darker parley.
He drove a Harley-Davidson
And dumped me on a porch,
His wiry eyes were gnarly,
His pupils held a torch.
Each morning his reversing
Equipped me for his bar,
And though he kept me burning
I felt those rains afar.
Moonbeams on your Vespa,
No further symbols for trespass,
Behind the blind billboards of our minds
We could do anything we wanted,
And so we chose absolution,
Love unadorned, scooter tyre-patterned.
I massaged your bare feet,
Tired from oblique laws,
Passages of egos and fuel.
You nurtured my eclipse
Until I bit my lower lip. I learnt
How to live on your tongue
And inside your yawn.
Like the light of Punta Campanella
Or the abandoned tors of and moors of Lazio,
Clematis-clad elemental tubors
Are all unclad and unstrung.
A thorn plucked from my thigh,
Hubris carved from its twin stillborn.
You are the clue to my murder,
You are the breadcrumbs in my forest
And the compressed skin beneath the rings
Of the sun. Is this my body and breath,
Or is it yours? Sometimes, it is difficult
To tell the two apart. No hard feelings, then,
When the moon has poured and moved on,
Pregnant as seahorses in the male thoughts
In my belly, the sound of a small motorcyle
Starts in my heart. I breakfast alone
With a second sound, of healing
And feelings which are akin to migrating
Mythical birds which had not been heard in
My absurd world for a very long time.
You are the mechanism and I am the loss
As we are tossed and buffeted by
The grey mosaics tomorrow accosts.
You are music in my subconscious womb;
Workaholism reduces us to the musk
Of what once was. I play blue tunes
To remind me of you, and every time
I hear a Vespa outside my window,
I cannot help but wonder, and look.