Park

I

Pen poised to write something,
but you never will. A cognitive
roadblock with your hand
inches from the frozen quill.

Strangers in the park, writing
us writing them; writing everything
dipped into the well, emerge
soaked in possibility and promises.

Hollow steel creates ambience,
makes you really want to dance,
Fuck this fake atmosphere,
Kiss me and take me out of here.

II

Head cupped in my laps, reverse
fellatio - pure romance. You
brush my hair; a simple stroke
of genius that you know.

This feels like Austen's latest
work, or, like reading Keats
and Steele in Iambic Pentameter
during the First World War.

Even the dirty, mud, is so
beautiful. Vomiting cliches
so fast I may have to lie down
on the grass, can this last?

III

I struggle to wish to remember
before you. Erasing it all
bar some sticky nights in
the back of clubs, for fun.

Between the Cutty Sark
and Deptford Bridge lies
the source of all my
happiness; dl-right to my heart.

Johannesburg at 2 O'Clock;
Pakistan at 3 - Worldwide
tours wrapped in your arms:
the Globe for you and me to see.

IV

You're so beautiful it defies
my mind, in time, with you
I hope to find a sense of
direction to where I can shine.

You are so completely everything
I need to complete me; you
are the people and the scenery
in the portrait of my life.

'Love' cannot describe our
infinite bond that will last,
and last, it will never pass,
now let me lie down on the grass.