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Friday, January 09, 2009

Celebrating Past Glory


we kissed behind the bike sheds,
you know that old cliché -
finding a little room
inside the wooden fences
for you and me -
our school-kid lips pressed tightly
together, too innocent to open wider,
you whispered in my ear,
no poetry today?

my fingers drummed your neck softly,
this is poetry
I said hungrily, and you gave a laugh
as I broke off contact
and felt my spirit break,
touch me again you said,
but I stepped further back
just to memorise the look of you,
I am touching you,
I said, in a way
that no human hand can ever do


then you said:
your hands make me
feel I'll never die
and pulled my fingers
to whisper-write my fire into you,
you never will, I had
promised with all ironic sincerity,
whilst the prints of my skin
typed out our story's view,

we might not have had much plot,
but it was enough
earth to make us grow
as such stories go -
I'll make you immortal,
I said to your request, while we marked
kisses as signatures of time
tattooed on chest and neck,
arm, elbow, wrist and hands
that played us as we played profoundly
behind the sheds at school-time.

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