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Monday, April 24, 2017

Flowering Tea and Yoga

they said Ted Hughes was a murderer
and when I met an artist
(my mother's friend of
a friend) called Sylvia: I told her excitedly
birds were symbolism and she
laughed at my hero worship
and sweet sixteen vanity,

    told me digesting
        Lucian Freud was cannibalism
(she was a painter you see
head of the local art gallery)
we had some wine
walked the beach by a sea turning red
in the hour glass,

she touched my arse
as I bent down in a yoga pose;
    invited me
to her house to
show her how
    to do yoga
    she made me tea
she placed a ball in boiled water
we watched unfurl out into a flower

we held hands
still strangers
    she read my poetry
and complained over
the lack of pictures
   and I admired her sandy hair
blonde and shoulder length; mysterious
shoulders freckled and pink,
violet eyes melancholic
like a Bob Dylan song --

    she admired my legs
and the dark hair beyond
as we began
   to practise yoga
on her rustic floorboards
and of course she showed me
   how to fuck her,
now every time I hear a floor creak
I get hard;
     but that's just karma;

I can never read Hughes now
without a smile
even in between the most darkest lines
    for a minute
        I'm on the anvil of floorboards
lost in the sand of her hair
and the wine of the sea;

the day too warm for a metaphor
    of spring
        of awakening
a quickening of sensibilities in bloom
a bright young daffodil
(Hughes had been so cyncial)
    I've come so far and still
    I'm that boy
who knew nothing
on the verge of it all,

when I thought the poet
    a tortured murderer
a lover losing a lover
never forgetting the memory
    of lines and words and sounds
neverlasting fleeting
    but a lifetime
of a lesson from her
to make more pictures
eating out beauty.

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