Heartcore poetry

At the rotten
Apple's Core
There is a worm
That sings a pleasant song.

I confess
A trespass on your soul.
Instead of praying
I watched you pray.
I confess
Since that day
I have paid my penance
With countless silly prayers.
I confess
I have received
My absolution from your lips
And gone still more astray.

If I told you
That I loved you
You would take great care
Not to offend
In telling me I erred.
This is as good as any reason
For me to talk of everyday affairs.

There should be a poem for you,
My lusty, thirsty one.
There is no love we now share
Beyond a vague memory
Of thigh against thigh,
The gasps, the senseless sighs,
The mornings in sex perfumed beds.
Yet you will have a poem,
For I have lost a hundred
kisses to your mouth,
And elsewhere as well,
My lusty, thirsty one
I want to cover you with kisses,
Clothe you in my embrace,
Dress you in my passion,
Then slowly unrobe you
To worship your naked state.

Asleep
She is her own country and soul.
A stranger even to my most deep love,
Which, when she awakes, is a giant thing.
Asleep she is greater than our common life,
A replete and feasted beast.
When she sleeps
My heart makes a pulsing count
Of all her beauties and virtues,
Waiting for her to wake
To my quiet adoring grin and gaze.
Yet when the morning comes
To kiss my love awake
She thinks me a heartless man
That never gives her praise.

As I walked towards you
The last sip of sun slipped
Egg-like from the sky.
Your lips gave me the gift
Of an unexpected smile
And I thought the sun recalled
And shamed by the light of your eyes.

Your lips I kissed with bright Summer stars,
Hanging heavy over the milky rising ocean.
Your hair brushing my shoulder
Made me a prince of shooting passions,
Injured by the arrow blow shot
From the taut bow
Of your own little death.

You and I
We need to invest our words
With new etymologies
To make our meanings clear
Each to the uncomprehending other.
Our words breed separation
When the language we need
Is that of reconciliation.
I will twist my meaning straight:
Look into my eyes
Whilst I tell you of my love.

Glancing down
The Moon saw past her consort clouds
To where we two lovers lay
Gilded in the light of her stare.
Yet our love was like that last quince
Ready to fall and leave a naked branch.
Until that night our tainted love
Had known no need for excuse.
At our parting we were caught
In the eye of the gathering gloom.
The Moon hid her face in shame,
Knowing she had seen this same love born
Under guard of her secret nocturnal hours.

We should have loved beneath the swaying apple tree,
Our scented love, cast upwards by the breeze,
Would then have been
Some high sacrament and psalm
More blessed than any song
Than I alone might sing,
Would, in all truth, have been
A triumphant wedding theme.

I make no excuse for charming out
A love that is all done and dulled
By my forgetful memory.
One day,
It seems,
We woke,
And found ourselves too far apart.
The days we had shared dispersed.
No longer did each remembrance
Of a deep embrace or fluid kiss
Bring to mind some time or place.

Because I am not your perfect man
I shall not walk with you,
Hand in hand,
Along Spring streets
Bright with blossom.
Instead I shall wander lost
Across the Autumn fields
Where the only beauty to be found
Is amongst the leaves
Trampled on the ground.

Had you but loved me,
As you claim to love this other man,
I would have become a hero
Beyond the measure of blame
That you now make mine.
If only, cries the soul,
If only cries the heart,
There was a way to pierce
Your curtain silence,
That we might as lovers speak
And speak only of love, not blame.

The one who found no cause to love
Each daily beat of my being,
For her sake am I become
So emotionless and dumb ?

Where now is the second part
Of my unnaturally divided heart ?
She lies languid on a couch,
Nibbling through the hours,
Eating lotus blooms
With small movements of her mouth.

Sipping obscenities from your lips
I longed to devour you,
To bite below your ear.
That was then, our yesterday,
This is now, my sorrow and pain,
My vacant present time
In which I hunger and burn.
Somewhere a man waits
To blush against your skin.
He will kiss away
What little remains
Of my love for you
And your memories of me.
You will let him drink
Between your thighs
And forget that once it was I
Who thirsted there.

The love I have
Is no true measure of love.
My love is just a stifled yawn,
A drunken dream,
A scorning of faith.
The love I have will fade
With the passing of time,
Or so at least they say.

I know my guilt
I know my sin:
They are
My crime
and punishment
Combined

Tugging my insides out
I speak what tales I can.
There are things I long to say,
Deeds I desire to do.
I long to take hold
Of your out stretched hand.
The thought and the act,
being rarely in synch,
The poem alone must often stand
In place of the fact.
Reminding you of what I am,
A man who falls short of his dreams,
I can ask for little but your honest prayers.

I thought I might have found you here,
Hanging around near Leicester Square.
I didn't, so I kicked a pigeon
And taught a tourist how to swear.

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