Sunday, 26 July 2015


 The bedroom is now our tomb

With only dusty sunlight

And debris of days of sex

And our bodies,

Forever tangled

We live like half lives

With eyes only for each other,

As the rest of our lives die.


For our souls were misshapen

We believe that each other

Can cure us

So we need not make the journey

To make ourselves complete.


We creep out to see if it could work

In real life,

If this could be the sort of love

That may hold hands

And last until

We get old, ugly and fall apart.


We bolt back to our tomb

Where we may die to the world

And only have each other

For while we try to cure ourselves

Our sweet lust and obsession

Only makes us sicker.





We know it’s lust

We can stay in bed for hours

And look past each other’s flaws

And enjoy each other’s body parts.

Like each other’s perfect sex dolls

With flesh bone, blood and maybe souls

Making a jigsaw of each other.


Like junkies,

Nothing else matters

Not jobs,

Not our future

Not our despairing friends.

Our world, land and sea

Depends on each other.


Is it love?

I see a dangerous rage

In your eyes

And when the puzzle pulls apart

There is desperation

In our screams of lust

And violence in our souls.


Do we see each other?

Or just our own egos

In the other’s eyes

Are we too close to see the flaws

That will destroy each other.


Closer to passionate enemies

Not friends for life.

Let us burn in sensual haven

And fall from grace

Make our own hell

Can we tell the difference?