It started with a kiss.
A soft, sleepy, gentle good night kiss,
a lingering, lurking…. laden, less is more kiss.
And ended in bliss.
Hot, breathless, pounding bliss,
a satiated, surfeit of scented good night bliss.
GLADIATORS for LOVE
Face to face, surrounded by an adolescent thicket
waiting, excited; they stand and stare. ‘Leave her the fuck
alone’ one grates. A shake….of the head and they collide.
Two Bay City Rollers, hard country lads, who knew how to
Stand and fight. Wincing punches traded, the hard crack
Of knuckles, on cheek, nose, lip, head, draws a rabbles gasp.
They go down, one atop the other, and piston like the fist
rises and falls. Muffled, muted moans seep out, as lips bust,
ears bleed, cheeks swell, eyes close and muscles ache.
Standing again, crouch-like, waiting ready. ‘Had enough?’
Bent, breathless, glaring, feeling the pain and sense of loosing.
Spit and blood, pained tears of defeat, defiance, pride. Round two.
No words these friends now; only split flesh, blood and bruises speak.
A ritual, hewn by the crack of bone on bone. A teacher who,
stood by like a coward now arrives, ‘He’s had enough’, and he had.
The circle of crows breaks, and the trance of grit and ugliness, of
Passion and anger is taken. Sickening excitement and fear over,
For a girl…a prize, possession, passion, pride……35 years ago.
© Vincent Creelan 2009
bad day at work hunny!!
The adorable Jake...
I registered this on the day that the founder and mentor of the Apple died. I am working on a kind of one man poetry ‘show/event’………….some of mine, much of others, a lot of gay, the good bad and ugly, the madly and deeply, filthy gorgeous and rude tube funny!
I will be reading at a queer literary get together in Belfast later this week. One poem by my dear friend the great poet David Bauman, another by Mary Ursula Bethell, and my own (below) inspired by hers and only possible because of David’s encouragement for me to write.
Sabotage
Is a gorgeous word, a rich dark word,
my favourite but little used word. It
is an exotic word with history and power,
a word that evokes another language and
culture, an act and consequence. Or ….
perhaps sabotage is just when shit happens.
It was the strokes that robbed me of my Gran
It was the drink that finally broke a son’s love
It was the dust that ruined a dream vacation
It was a bomb that ended a promising career
It was the red tape used as a pathetic excuse
It was a conversation that broke a Prime Minister
It was the inability to talk that split a couple
It was a pyramid money scam in Romania
It was bigotry that tried to make us move out
It was a handball that diminished a reputation
It was being gay that for so long stunted his life
It was another’s jealousy that ended a friendship
It was an age limit that denied him a new hip
It was a txt message that took away the will to live
It was a betrayal that left him dead on the bar floor
It was two glasses that alas made it all come clear
It was a circled personal ad that hurt her so much
It was a failure to act that brought the towers down
It was a joke behind his back that undermined
It was doing the wrong thing for the right reason
It was because loves blinds us sometimes to the truth
It was for the greater good, but at what cost
It was to protect something older, wiser than us
It was lust or love that cheated her of an inheritance
It was distance and family that meant it could not be
It was oil that made the world even less safe than before
It was a mutual friend’s need that broke his heart
Sabotage is a gorgeous word, a rich dark word,
My favourite but little used word. It can be
for change, scandal, tragedy. It can be
for inaction, or intervention, for love,
hate, drama and desperation. Or…..
perhaps sabotage is just when shit happens.
Daddy-long
legs
I miss the
Cuckoo’s call at dawn,
Or the smell
of a fox at the bottom of my lawn.
The
Peregrines cry has been so quiet of late,
Who can say
what maybe the honey bee’s fate.
There seem
to me, a deal fewer Swallows this year,
When was the
last time you said, is that a Corncrake I hear?
Vanished are
the Daddy-long legs I played with as a boy,
Even the
troublesome ants, fail anymore to annoy.
Well
travelled Chiff-Chaffs and Willow Warblers seem rarer
And wasps at
the barbeque a deal less scarier.
The Irish
Hare appears shy, even in March,
Sadly the
Snipe and Woodcocks fate has been harsh.
Ladybirds
and Butterflies have become man’s pawn,
I miss the
Cuckoo’s call at dawn.
Vincent in Ireland