Light-years
I am dissonant in light-years,
between our bodies.
Love always happens when you stop finding the meaning of a purple oblivion.
Times
the cigarettes to my whiskies,
times, entwined with our yellow fingers.
Last night I entered a woman, last night I ejaculated inside a blurred face,
as usual I was high in tranquility.
But you were there in my skin, in my warmth, in my transported nights.
You remember; we danced on ice?
you remember we found heat from a reflected window?
you remember when the first time you smoked from my lips?
Of course you don’t,
you see I still have a nest in your ribcage even if you don’t remember all these reds among colourless ocean.
Late at night I whispered a word…
late at night I pissed from a cummed dick…
late at night you came to me as death…my swirling monotony…
late at night I understood I could never be a person of smiling substances.
True love always happens at the lack of oblivions…
but what if our eyes were made to live in mortality and die in infinity?
ask your vacant continuum.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: William Oldacre.