'WHEN THE GATE SITS ALONE'
When the gate sits alone
holding itself between the wooden posts
men on service leave wash themselves in reedy ponds
or under great tanks as trains pull in with staring eyes glaring
or gleefully spying
on naked flesh
with hairy chests and placid cores.
to dress in the morning one must find the drawer
pulling the cotton over feet, ankles, knees
up fleshy thighs with hair growing since 1933
cupping the familiar curves with support
with shadowed and softened indents
as one looks out the window to the garden and the gate
the gate that sits alone
II
the naked sideboard
it sits alone like a vein throbbing at the temple
showing nothing but the acceptance of time's constraint
how has the matter ejaculated like liquid apple cores
into the universal food-for-thought syndrome?
there is nothing gastronomical about thought
(excepting those idyllic tales and oils upon canvas
behind the white, white sheet).
I watch you as you walk
knowing that you think of bitter chores and chaffing loins
wondering how you will afford those things that are so spiritually taxing.
yet they give so much
yet they destroy so much time
oh! you in your tightly woven wool
summer is equated with semi-naked workmen
and you're left alone with pin stripe and tie.
you get home and pour yourself a wine
you wish it was circa 1900 with a beach behind you,
a cigarette in mouthf
inding the clothes you left on the shore
wishing you were refreshed, salty, wet
turning your clothes outside out
with your chum doing the same 2 feet in front
you're alone though
like the unjoined words and unfound meanings of Whitman
with only your deja vu to keep you occupied
III
Those pictures we posed for...
I would never have thought it would cause embers to glow
we were just on the silk water
living as one no longer does
direction held no iron doors of dissent then
Naked and shining
water curling our standard locks
clothes on the shore,
no doubt with summer fruits in their pockets
alcohol and cigarettes had begun suffocating cordial and sweets
67 years later you've seen us
sitting still for the longest of seconds
in monochrome
black and white
my clothes soon to turn khaki
but then but then
one didn't need clothes
just an embrace
a smilea summer turning browner in the sun
and someone to make the shutter click
IV
From out that window
you find yourself looking into the garden
where the wheel barrow sits next to the gate
from out of this window I have stared
looking in
knowing how the axis of night casts silver thought across my forehead
images of what was so unattainable
have dribbled down my shirt and onto my flies
when I leave from out that gate
trying not to miss buses or trip over on the stone replacing brick
slowly i delve into a different excitement
one that replaces those thoughts of an unattainable era
sadly, yes it does
When the gate sits alone
holding itself between the wooden posts
men on service leave wash themselves in reedy ponds
or under great tanks as trains pull in with staring eyes glaring
or gleefully spying
on naked flesh
with hairy chests and placid cores.
to dress in the morning one must find the drawer
pulling the cotton over feet, ankles, knees
up fleshy thighs with hair growing since 1933
cupping the familiar curves with support
with shadowed and softened indents
as one looks out the window to the garden and the gate
the gate that sits alone
II
the naked sideboard
it sits alone like a vein throbbing at the temple
showing nothing but the acceptance of time's constraint
how has the matter ejaculated like liquid apple cores
into the universal food-for-thought syndrome?
there is nothing gastronomical about thought
(excepting those idyllic tales and oils upon canvas
behind the white, white sheet).
I watch you as you walk
knowing that you think of bitter chores and chaffing loins
wondering how you will afford those things that are so spiritually taxing.
yet they give so much
yet they destroy so much time
oh! you in your tightly woven wool
summer is equated with semi-naked workmen
and you're left alone with pin stripe and tie.
you get home and pour yourself a wine
you wish it was circa 1900 with a beach behind you,
a cigarette in mouthf
inding the clothes you left on the shore
wishing you were refreshed, salty, wet
turning your clothes outside out
with your chum doing the same 2 feet in front
you're alone though
like the unjoined words and unfound meanings of Whitman
with only your deja vu to keep you occupied
III
Those pictures we posed for...
I would never have thought it would cause embers to glow
we were just on the silk water
living as one no longer does
direction held no iron doors of dissent then
Naked and shining
water curling our standard locks
clothes on the shore,
no doubt with summer fruits in their pockets
alcohol and cigarettes had begun suffocating cordial and sweets
67 years later you've seen us
sitting still for the longest of seconds
in monochrome
black and white
my clothes soon to turn khaki
but then but then
one didn't need clothes
just an embrace
a smilea summer turning browner in the sun
and someone to make the shutter click
IV
From out that window
you find yourself looking into the garden
where the wheel barrow sits next to the gate
from out of this window I have stared
looking in
knowing how the axis of night casts silver thought across my forehead
images of what was so unattainable
have dribbled down my shirt and onto my flies
when I leave from out that gate
trying not to miss buses or trip over on the stone replacing brick
slowly i delve into a different excitement
one that replaces those thoughts of an unattainable era
sadly, yes it does
Tim,
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing these poems. They're very evocative - an ode to yesterday's eroticism.
And the photo on this one is perfect.
I look forward to reading more!
Namaste,
Lee