Though it remains unnamed,
it is enough to know
that in the rock and the roll of it,
the losing control of it,
between the hushed ‘fucks’
and the guttural cries,
the gaze exchanged
between unguarded eyes
it is there
Celtic virility dripping
from his rim,
raking each glassy breath.
amid wedded shards,
freefall shapes blown
of our own viscous chaos,
twisted stem highballs
amid unstable natron flux.
We poured ourselves
into a decade, oblivious,
in hot, sticky carnality,
on cut-glass rocks
scooped from cold crystal
to tranquilise engorged
fire-cut and ruined,
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,
marbling centuries of loss
on blue-glaze Portland,
clutching his script
in death-wax hands.
violet eyes brazing,
hair liquid black,
from Morfa’s glutted seam.
She blessed and burnt
my summer daze,
a crucible of white heat,
her gleaming teeth
the icy hellions
of my bleak winters.
We raged with it,
the horn-ridden beast,
hollered as we let it claw
our clothes, rip ecstasy
from our throats, gouge
our eyes with the taloned
beauty of idolised youth.
Ten years we burned
between the sun and its
and sallow loathing,
fighting and fucking
until molten and wet,
she snaked from my
left me spent and spewing,
to roam the sodden streets;
livid, raw, weeping whisky
into soot-filled gutters,
scuttling the gulf
of snot-drowned grief,
an ashen shadow of a man
bearing the red welt
of a life half-lived,
~ Bit of a departure for me. I’m fascinated by the relationship between Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. They had a passionate, tempestuous marriage between 1964 and 1974, remarrying 16 months after their divorce, the second marriage lasted less than a year. He likened their marriage to rubbing two sticks of dynamite together.
Burton died of a brain haemorrhage in August 1984. He was buried in a red suit, a tribute to his Welsh roots, and with a copy of Dylan Thomas’s poems, many of which he had recorded to great acclaim. Burton wrote Taylor countless love letters over the years, even when they were apart. His last was delivered to her home three days after his death. She died 27 years later in March 2011 and was buried with the letter.
I’ve tried to write this from Burton’s point of view after they divorced in 1974. You kinda have to imagine his deep, rich Welsh voice to get the full effect. If you don’t know what he sounded like check out the link – hands down the best reading of Thomas’ Do Not Go Gentle.
This supplesoft pink tingling sheath,
slith-ribboned by a blade of light,
that buttermelts with every bite,
lays bare its joy before your teeth.
Pink pelt belies a deft disguise
that hides the sculpted ore beneath;
take care when choosing to ignite
this supplesoft pink tingling sheath.
Purring ocelot sleeps,
Fur stirs, stretches,
Growling, whiskers bristling,
for the warm, wet,
I dreamt you hard, long before you came,
your Delphian frame flooding the gulch,
clutching at moist, glistering cavern,
quixotic slattern, craving percussion.
Yet here you are, no transient vagary,
flesh, bone and sex wrapped up raw,
carnality craved, raised from the floor.
Rough finger touch, deepfasthard
rip clothes, discard, feral roar.
Core muscles spasm, thrum on the tongue,
tightly wound wires unravel, undone,
cunt agonising for that firstfuckrush.
~ I’m interested in the whole Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus concept – men speaking Martian, women Venusian – and how this affects the different way the sexes write/read poetry and if indeed there is any difference at all. With this in mind, and as a Venusian, I set my self a challenge to write a poem that would appeal to both sexes but that weighed in heavily with what many would regard very male (Martian) language. Now that I’ve written it I feel that approaching it this way has allowed me to write in a very raw and honest way about sex without (I hope) tipping over into Erotica. I’d be really interested to know whether you (Martians and Venusians) feel this works.
lace lifts, reveals
midriff to taste,
chaste, yet somehow
within the boundaries
No altar, no rose-scented petalled bed,
no morning suit-grey waiting to be wed.
No priest, no vows, save those we’ve mined and spun;
soft Clogau truths exchanged by candlelight.
This stolen time, as we outrun the sun,
permits us to perform this ancient rite.
A simple room, this bless’ed bridal suite,
commune, cocoon, until the morning light.
White wedding gown, a simple cotton sheet,
sweet affirmations, raptured we unite.
Our altar, this sex-scented metal bed,
we sing our Hallelujahs and are wed.
~ Clogau gold (pronounced Clog – I) is rare Welsh Gold from the Clogau gold mine in the mountains of Snowdonia.