ROMEO

Through the portal of recurring dream you return
with bizarre temptations that disturb equilibrium
and banish all hope of restful slumber: the wee hours robbed
of the self-control that checks an inner tempest.

Now resolve is vanquished and wild yearnings plague
body and mind. It's a kind of insanity
that ushers in addiction, where fantasy takes flight
like a ravenous vampire, quitting only at the rising of the sun.

Fractured Utopia haunts waking moments.
While you stand heroic in retrospect, I lay
breathless in dishevelled bed and psychic knots,
mesmerised by the after-image of sheer perfection.

A Shakespearian Tragedy, almost:
Romeo's touch from beyond the restless grave -
overpowering, intensely erotic - yet painfully unfulfilled.
Poor Juliet...

GOTH

For Tatania...

Black was your colour.
If not black, then indigo. But black
expressed who you were.
Midnight black. Was it night?
Was it the black of Dracula's cloak?
Black for invisibility in the dark.
Oh yes, how that appealed
to your need for anonymity.

When you had begged and cajoled enough,
our shared apartment was all black. A tomb,
disconcerting at night. The jet-black carpet
with it's fluffy pile and inky depths,
and the curtains - a raven velvet darkness -
sheer nothingness, falling from ceiling to floor.
Pillows and duvets the same. Same
black velvet even tacked to the ceiling.
A sombre tomb. A church crypt - Transylvanian?

Only your face escaped into whiteness.

And outside the window
a passing funeral possession,
a surreal and gloomy scene.
Your eyes glistened - you seemed to revel in misery,
like the Grim Reaper on his rounds. And you adored
black tulips, because they reminded you
of the dark night of the Soul.
Claustrophobia, morbidity, you were
spiritually buried alive.

Floor-length leather coat: a swathe of darkness,
a black shroud.
Your lips and eyes were coal black too.
You delighted in black.
It felt safe, protective, like
being back in the darkness of the womb.
It suited your wounded Soul.

Your every word sounded mysterious,
your East European accent hypnotic.
You'd whisper in my ear, dripping black,
weeping black crucifixes - at least a dozen of them -
and then, sometimes, a silver skull among them.

White would have suited you better. White is healing.
White could have illuminated the tomb
where you'd interred your heart
away from all possibility of further damage.
But white had become your Nemesis,
the demon you'd buried inside you.

In your pit of black you felt safe
from all things white...

like the Albino
                      who once broke your heart.

ODE TO MICK

At the beat of his drum kit
female hormones rage.
He covers Hendrix, resembles Bolan
in glam rock costume
with leather platform boots,
and has even paraded as Jagger.

Groupies, he assures me, mean nothing at all,
are simply ego stokers:
bleached hair, pouty lips; good to be seen with
on an album cover
or in a nightclub - no substitute
for me though. At least, that's what he claims!

But how his eyes belie such noble declarations:
each ogling a stark betrayal
that wounds, unsettles, penetrates my armour;
his fame secured so dearly,
at such expense to my confidence.
Is his body as faithless as his eyes?

Pretty girls hanging around the stage,
swaying in ecstasy to his lyrics and the mood
he's so cleverly created, each one hoping
post concert to sneak away with him
for a notch-on-the-bedpost hour of passion -
that will drive another sword through my heart.

YOU

You?
You haunt my dreams.
In the nocturnal landscape
your form takes shape:
with eyes tight shut
you're distant, but
I feel you here
so close it seems
I'm touching you.

You
warm my nights
and loneliness banish,
make inhibitions vanish.
Like restless wraiths
denouncing their faiths,
we laugh, kiss, get drunk,
yet never descend into ego fights.
I'm addicted to you.

You,
when in capricious mood,
can drive me crazy
with meanings hazy
of perplexing metaphors -
but even this quirkiness of yours
utterly captivates...
evokes wild desire, without being lewd.
Oh how I want you.

You
know I exist
just to be with you,
in spite of vehemently denying it's true.
In reality, it is my brash oath
that I, alone, can love for us both
that finally gives my game away:
for I am a fanatical fantasist -
the one who invented you! 😉

CELESTIAL NOCTURNE

High up in spatial indigo,
pinpoint specks
of whitest light

twinkle en masse,
like fireflies
in the midnight sky.

Distant clouds
roll by
like waifs

and in boundless expanse
the full moon
beams bright.

Flashing red
plane lights
pass through Heaven

while, invisible, my essence
drifts through space
on silent wings,

consciousness spinning
in blissful ecstasy,
higher and higher

where adroit Elementals
float by mistily
on anomalous thermals.

Up here, where serenity
reigns in perfect harmony,
the Universal Vibration
                            fills my Soul.