Love is the drug

heart-drugs

Love is the drug I hear them say
Can I get it in a tablet or a nasal spray?
Love is the drug and it’s messing with my brain
Your detox did today but I’ll backslide again

Let me get caned in your cuddles
Do a gram of wet-eye-stares?
Or maybe try some methalove;
Warm and close but not as scary?

Love is the drug, light afterglow
My shot in the arm, your ultimate dose
My sweet narcotic of nuzzling necks
A sure-fire hit for knock-out sex

Love is the drug
The balm
The pain
Our tearing loss
Our need to do it again

From the soaring highs of love’s hot fix
Where blood rushes blindly inciting my psychosis.
We lie it’s forever. I believe it’s what hurts.
An infinite comedown and it’s aching our hearts.

 

The Uprisen

Stańczyk by Jan Matejko (1862)

Stańczyk by Jan Matejko (1862)

I’m revolting in the kitchen
I will not wash another cup
Also, I’ve emptied nary the bins
And I don’t care who’s turning up

In the toilet I’m revolting
You can guess the seat stays raised
A growing ring of gloomy grey
Encircles the tub these days

The floor of our thru-diner
Is an irksome furry muck
Where I’ve revolted against the oppressive regime
That bids I vacuum up

Window’s streak with weeks of grime
The laundry mountain hums
Shadows stretch from coves
– such as spiders hide –
Yet I’m sticking to my guns

Once in a while love stands a test
Resists worldly weights and… sails
Then sometimes – perhaps we looked away –
Once in a while love fails

So leave me to my misery
Let this dirt I foster bloom
You live your life in spite of love
I’ll sulk, revolting,
In some dark room

Bedlam Museum of the Mind

A visit to Bethlem Hospital
Museum of the Mind this week.
Open Wednesday to Friday 10am-5pm
(unless you’re in a ‘group’).
I find myself struck by the times.

There is a wide range of art
as well as historical lunacies to enjoy
and the staff and ‘service users’
are impeccably informed and helpful.

Here are two of the few photo’s I took to remind me of the visit.

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan (after)

Harriet Jordan (after)

Sorting Bags

She had bags of bags, filled with shoes,
Christmas wrappings,
old cards and new ones.
Bags of overplayed toys and of unopened letters.

We kept clawing into the gloom and dust.
More bags and open boxes,
buried in the insect-shell-carpet,
deep in the fabric of the long dead.
Box after box…
some had bags in, some had letters in,
reams of notes, in bags.

There were more shoes,
a crimson coat of monstrous proportions.
There was a box full of bags from the eighties filled with toys
– battalions of soldiers in disarray
eyeballing
teams of alien muscle men
through the decades.

And last of all,
wrenching the newspaper floor with it,
dragged out from beyond,
a decomposing leather hold-all,
filled with photographs.
Beaming back from their childhood,
tiers of school pics,
camping trips,
instants of birthdays hurried though
and flashes of Christmases.
I clamber back. Kneel back and,
hands on knees,
take a breath.

These treasures are piled in the spare room,
one trove stacked on a chair.
Inhaling the gasps of long ago, hefting.
The chatter of ages fills my nostrils,
hits the back of my throat – my memories
– and I gulp down more,
then she shuts the bedroom window,
which suffocates us abruptly.

Go get a bag then.
Her hands already picking over the bones.

Another bag. This one heavy
with the dark implications of the Black.
The crisp pliable plastic of sacks,
body bags.
I bare my mind as I reach into the
kitchen cupboard, downstairs.
Here dark personal thoughts swim.
So upstairs again I rip
one finality after another
off the roll
as she empties years of what-ifs into these
terrible cocoons.

We stay there for days jogging back
and forth through shared and forgotten
events. All that’s dead is gone, all that’s dust
is dead. In a bag in a box
in a hole. There’s a dream that once
lit up her head.

Hey Monkey Men

With your stupidity and bad omens!
It’s all a space race:
With the faceless them
still setting the pace.
Yet, don’t lose track of your place,
or what they say is the ace trace!

Really,
all us fools and bums:
To further your plans;
sit forward;
give Grace
and embrace the lace bass –
which keeps you in time –
and in tune with the brace,
of faceless (tasteless),
Monkey Men;
who insist on laying waste
to your dreams of choice,
of place,
of time, to spread your mind and race
your own race.

They’re onto you and your funny ways
Profiling you
Dociling you
Infantilising and merchandising you.
It’s clearly in your best
To get invested in their
Popularity test

News is – their not resting
Till you sign over your vest,
Release your funds,
reveal those secret places
Cash in your treasure chest
that’s in your chest
And lives apart.
Must we populate their cloud
With our heart?

Shakrilana

Last time in those pretty eyes
where your lust lay
behind cried spies
I sought fame
and found your breast
where rested head
these thoughts forget

Here the sun breaks bleak thru days
blown clouds fly free
float forms which ‘maze.
This last enchantment
seeks your gaze
though all are blinded
eyes ablaze

This single psalm is sung by tune
in pretty lanes
on afternoons
though winds and rain
fight for small sounds
their crash is quieted
when you frown

Beautiful Night

Turbulent, mindful and full of delight
Mortimer sits through day into the night.
Aware that his being here’s not wholly right,
Silent twitches and grins, though, are all that’s in sight.

When all of a sudden night falls, and all’s dark
Mortimer crawls out from under his Snark,
Pulls all his hair out which signals the start,
And wanders alone to his midnight sweetheart.

Way up a hill down the wrong end of town
The last drips of water slip onto the ground,
From a succulent body wrapped warm in a gown.
And Wanda, all fresh flesh, figures on love knocking round…

Reflected moon shimmers off Mortimer’s head,
As he passes dim bars where the punters – long dead
– argue intently of pitches that bled
From Saturday games beamed direct to their heads!

A bang and a whoop and a crunch at the door
Wakes Wanda, from slumber –
From dreams of amour.
Her shout down, like chocolate,
I’m on the 3rd floor.
Sends shivers through (thudding up stairs) Mortimer.

Lights from her face beam our man on his way
Through doorway, ajar, to a bliss where she lays.
As wonder envelopes in all of loves ways,
These lovers embrace this sweet time and for days.

_she_will_be_loved__by_larosaperlata-d3dhm2m

She Will Be Loved, Larosaperiata (Click image to jump)

Reviewed and reposted from 2011