Deeper

 

 

     The damaged quill writes on automatic,

like sci-fi writers of fiction and fact,

     like the ending credits where as life

draws its fake conclusions – we leave

before the last word, the last, breath.

 

     ‘I am ill and so too this quill!’

 

     This quill came my way by

a brown octopus bold and alive,

   in a doorway to a bedroom kingdom

where shifting, all orgasm was all night,

     and next, and next, and next.

 

     Such a crouch of understanding between us

as both knew if found out,

   the ink would run dry and so too,

      this phallus that yearns still to this day,

          a day a thousand years beyond the meeting

              of a humanoid and, alien in love.

 

          Do I let the end credits roll past victory,

                      or do I rewind and visit the play again in hope of a win???

 

     My relationship now is with a steel cock ring -

the spikes determined to reference frequencies of hope

   like a - Yagi Array - too starved to consider concealment;-

      abandoned to nakedness of a solemn child not knowing

          why the chastisement and why a consolidated snub by all.

 

      But only one was ever wanted,

only one so much I never removed the ink stain

from the side of the bed,

     only one where the sea water could

  sense the fresh and there the coral in bloom

         like the colours of a sky where cloud had yet to travel.

 

     Nothing of decay upon that day,

        nothing of the harm I held in antiquity

           lingered any-more when my name was the first I heard upon her lips,

               but there in time a revelation came,

                   she had been spoiled while the deep quieted,

                 her first,

                         ‘she wished, was me!’

 

 

Michael J Waite 11th October 2023.