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
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).
Seeking ways to free myself from limitations,
I’ve considered all the options still available,
now that this zeal within me has awoken.
& it’s clear that if it cannot be accomplished
through some means which, in a basic sense,
could be described as “physical” (for it’s only
in the fleshly sense that limitations can apply)
then I must think beyond the flesh to find the
things I need — such as a home which doesn’t
crumble or decay (Oh, and some wings to fly!)
A new diagrammatic poem for you to “chew” on 😉It started as a dream which woke me in the night then, bleary-eyed, it turned into some words which, in my later waking state, seemed to be strangely right…
© Alan Morrison, 2017