Decades of weaving days drove by unnoticed
hobbling slidely through
the unkempt meadow of my brevity.
A fierce uncertain frailness flies in heavenly strands
towards the cracked unmended plate of joy
which earlier in my halcyon days had slipped
out of my tender clumsy hands
So now I reached the age of full consent.
My tongue at last can flutter on some clit —
her mouth a scabbard for my sword (her scent
will make me drunk with love, I must admit).
Until that day, the numbers don’t perform
to make that “three-six-oh” degree design.
But when it comes, there’ll be a thunderstorm
and on each other’s love-juice we will dine.
For cunnilingus is no common word.
Fellatio is equally obtuse.
Now, one year short of seven-oh, I’m stirred
to find some willing darling to seduce.
The time to make those body-parts align
is surely at the age of sixty-nine!
© Alan Morrison, 2018
BEHIND ALL THE POLITICAL TALK ABOUT GUN CONTROL lies something far more important to consider: The symbolic nature of guns and other weaponry. For underlying all the processes of division and conflict in human or transnational relationships is the huge tension caused by the sexually repressed unconscious (personal and collective) of the mass of people in this world. This is the real issue: The sexual dysfunctionality of vast swathes of humanity.
EDITING HAS NOW REACHED THE AWKWARD STAGE! So in come the balcony tables as editing desks. This is the last 30% of my spiritual biography and presentation, “Narrow Gate – Pathway Strait: The Road I have Chosen”. (First 70% already complete). It’s so far at a total of 42,500 words (67 A4 pages), and I estimate it will be 50,000 words when completed (which is the equivalent of a 170-page paperback book). It should be another couple of weeks to the final draft of what will be an eBook. It should certainly stir the pot!
As I dreamed me through the wilderness of this broken world
I came upon a country where they claim that only milk and
honey flow through fulsome flowing rivers in which molten
lava changed from gold alchemically swirls & writhes & rolls.
And in that strangeful dream of mine, with wide eyes I had
soon observed that every forehead of the herd of humans
(walking in a row) had ‘Wishful Thinking’ slavishly inscribed
(though maybe more precise to say they were lobotomised).