XI

I was born condemned to brine and sulphur

And them I will embrace with the fervour

Of a saint grinning at death impaled on a spire,

If I should fulfil my utmost endeavour:

To kiss your face. I am a time-tortured soul,

Graffiti-cleft-scars like ancient hieroglyphs

Chronicling how putrid, decadent and foul

This existence is, yet in the G-clefs

Of your laughter my spirit is smooth as birth,

I bear my uvula with infantile humour,

Fall, roll, weep, convulse, infected in your mirth.

You have returned straightness to my posture.

To kiss you would be heaven’s own summit,

Then let my demons come, I’ll gladly submit.

XV

Poetry’s divine, so we call it verse,

Which makes this a gift fit for you.

Mouth these words, I kiss in verbs,

Feeling you with this ink, it blue.

Two puns should equal four-play

So I’m making love to your mind:

I am Catullus, you are Lesbia gay.

These words on your lap, you find

Dextrous as my twitching tongue,

I do not brag; I’m a cunning linguist.

Kiss of laughter drinks your lungs

And searches your soul like a priest,

Hoping you realise, I fervently pray,

That I should do as well as I say.

XCIX

We will meet again someday to compare scars

And the hatred we harbour for those we love.

We will compare suicide notes beneath the stars

And maybe we will know why we are still alive.

What is an oasis without a desert? It’s a puddle.

Believe we will meet again, someday, someplace,

Close or far, drink, smoke, laugh, fuck-fuck cuddle,

Clothe you in my nakedness twin child of solace.

Born of similar stripes, only the night knew

Our colours until we had, for a while, each other,

And then we learnt that skies at night can be blue.

Goodbye for a while, sweet gift of this chapter.

Remember my lips and the passion in their kiss

Until we meet, there, where there’s no darkness.