Taylor on Burton


 

He came;
swaggering incendiary,
Celtic virility dripping
from his rim,
gravelly timbre
raking each glassy breath.
 

Vows lost
amid wedded shards,
freefall shapes blown
of our own viscous chaos,
twisted stem highballs
splintering
amid unstable natron flux.
 

We poured ourselves
into a decade, oblivious,
lolled
in hot, sticky carnality,
sluiced scotch
on cut-glass rocks
scooped from cold crystal
to tranquilise engorged
fuck-heat fingers.
 

Scorched,
fire-cut and ruined,
we retreated
to misshapen solid
states, mixing virulent
cracked lacquer cock tales
of medicated misery
and miscast lovers
 

until blistered and bloated,
clasped in the cold grip
of the parison,
he bled into the Céligny night,
 

leaving me to languish,
crushed,
ribboned red,
marbling centuries of loss
on blue-glaze Portland,
clutching his script
in death-wax hands.
 
 

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1 Comment

Filed under Free Verse, Poetry

One response to “Taylor on Burton

  1. I’m glad to slipped under Liz’s skin too to answer Burton’s rampaging piece. Great bookends and a very evocative way of exploring these two charismatic characters.

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