Love, Thou Art


Love- thou art

the rider on the storm-

seductive precursor to demonstrations

of demons in flesh suits-

Love- thou art

the burning in my pit- distinct-

distilled- and broken memories

that carve and sow together-

insidious puppeteer- emotion

in the entrails that hold my gut

to her dedicated lies-

and there was nothing- but love

and flies- whimpering mnemonics-

harmony of none-

Love- thou art

my death in all its slow agonising finale-

and I wait- your bitch-

to taste it again-

 

Poem © Phen Weston 2017

Bettina

Shifting tarns–

life emits in Bali-brown observations–

provocative gestures allure us– embrace us–

 

when in Dresden you oscillated

in grey knit– flesh– and sensation–

swathed in limbs that drift in–

and out of heart–

and now we plunge in

and out of seas–

with quartz azure providence and nameless perception–

with sand between your toes

you dance– and sway– in faultless coherences–

and I watch the dance transcend–

back and forth–

 

harmonies sensual provocateur–

 

when what little we know- other than a screen–

token love- X-rated feature– and unrequited dreams–

never seen beyond foist seduction– names and nothing–

a tiltott gyümölcs a legédesebb– (Forbidden fruit is sweet)–

 

Meld…

Dancing thoughts played parallels
Against the backdrop of nightly air.
“Repeat after me”, she swooned in dream,
Keeping her distance from the present,
Never touching more than gods hands.
Essence amalgamated into her divinity,
Sorrow followed with those lonely eyes
Sorrow held her hearts reply closely to his.

Was love to become the lost highway?
Another stop off for forgotten souls?
“Remember me”, she cried into nothingness.
My heart fractured, I would never do anything but
Torment myself with her fragmented memories.
Honouring her unwanted hold over me.

 
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Poem © Phen Weston, 22nd October 2014.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again

I had stumbled, and wished
that words would not press
so softly against my temple,
that they were your voice
whispering into my eyes,
not just the imagining of my soul.

Plaster cast promises that dissipate
when memories surface that- with
wheres and whens – had never met,
but so many seemed to watch
their woes along the watchtower.

I couldn’t count, and refused to see,
the empathetic reimbursement
of another soul that she- craving
connections in the dark- had borne
in fuel and fire to become the sun.

Yet I was a blank canvas, waiting
impatiently to be absorbed
into her azure eyes- never thought
of as lovers morphed together- but
redemption, redemption, redemption,
denied-flaked away at loosening synapse.

In singular redesigned truths,
that locked away the string
of coarse heat in winter dreams,
she never read my soul, except
as a confession of such hungry guilt.

That guide to heart, but lacks
those forces we find in millennia sold
for show- as we freeze- but super nova
become the circumstance of remorse,
the cycle starts again,
and nothing becomes our dawn.

  

  

Poem © Phen Weston, 19th May 2016.

We Look Before and After…

Two lives- and I divide
you by no spires- pictures
and videos of those before
convert to rumours- another animation-
spurious- you exist inside spring-
wrapped in lilac and gliding with petrels-
flying far from home- and what is
home- not my heart in another soul-
but pressed against your bosom
to rediscover those ancient ghosts-
empty hosts- long lost boasts-
not when eyes reach across
those blank and empty skies-
forces sink and periscopes pledge
the earth beneath your feet-
those feet that stood in scorpion pits-
pitting the emptiness of the past
with oaths that nothing comes- nor lasts-
and I know that nothing bestows
to us dreams of each other’s throes-
I pressed you into my heart-
but knew those edged songs
were not pressed into your eyes-
I watched alone-
future memories all ready to deform-
where love becomes unknown-
agent provocateur and storm-

  

Poem © Phen Weston 2017

La Douleur Exquise

Dew breached the hearth

and settled on placated embers –

It did not evaporate –

We lay in the vault and observed

the vacant walls turn from unfilled

to a visual transcript of nothing.

Draped in conciliatory memories.

The cats head butts your hand,

expecting warmth where only lethargic

dead eyed crumbling nonsense endured.

How did our days become so hollow?

We spoke of shock treatment.

Wondered if those volts would reawaken

the one, two, three, of something

felt in every place we placed each foot,

one in front of another. Discovered

each other in lands as sand-swept

and fanatical as the thrashing of our thoughts.

Rock salt in an open wound.

Does it burn?

I express the truth and you blank the remedies.

Does love between the soul we share

really adapt to insert another? You say

“the trigger doesn’t want to budge,”

but the bullet flies as swift as larks

and impales my heart like a snare

flung from the arms of a little drummer boy,

as shrapnel tears his eyes and mind

to blistered recognition of lies-

Pa rum pum pum pum –

Sleep seems such a distant meander.

Somewhere between the sketch of life

and those belongings that once seemed important.

I think

we placed them next to the impossible

when we agreed that once sharing forever

would last more than a season.

And now I think the course to take is alcoholism.

To drift through the reeling stern

of lineal precognition – your absence- absolution.

The handicap blank stare of universal

emptiness and flare. Day dreamer,

they call me with snakes forked tongues.

In the distance rises that song-

Vivere commune est, sed non commune mereri-

Distant dreamer, I have only you in my wound.

The constant companion,

the empty endless mood.

Once the stars begged to be in your light,

now engulfed by absent optic dusk –

La douleur exquise –

I am the ghost in your eyes.

  

 

Death and Other Love Songs

A
parade is static
parallels
to the parramatta of our words.
That come
and go in lay lines
with gradual departed struts.
Running
in feathered dreams,
we loved
in simple drops and streams.
Evaporated by other means.
Where did our ending go?

There
was never a coach for such misdeeds,
I couldn’t
save you, and observed the world become
the sepulchre in which we fought our eldritch clause.
Fear
and anger
that took advantage of bonds on zephyr.
And still
we cling and cannot relinquish.
While you
share your bed in another woe.
Yet am I supernatural?

Destined
to remain the mask of death
as you
are there in all the glory
of our moribund crescendo.
“We are still soulmates,”
you attest,
filled again and again by others.
But me,
I wait.
Draped in shroud desires
to cleave
that face from your memory.
Watch him fall
and tumble into that apathetic wake.
Never
to gaze upon my deathly siren once more.

The empty blues
and Parisian noose.
Tunnels to our abyss.
Our love
is more fierce than youths lust.
But feeling nothing,
we become
dust
to dust and other love songs.
Playing our tune
on time-worn hearts.
When all you see is I.
The providence of our affections,
to love no other,
but always die
in another’s empty world…

Stranger

She walked in,
drowning in your perfume.
A stranger, but
no less stranger than we
have become,
ghosts of a submerged scent.
Yet I wonder,
how do strangers
share that one empty soul?
Scent and memory
drenched distance.
And oh, how I hate
the bitterness of life!
When you are there
and nowhere
in those strange
empty days…