Angelspit (I-Q)

The right of Dave Young to be identified as the author has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright designs and patents act 1988.
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The contents  of Angelspit – page 2 –  I-Q
9. In Vino Veritas. 10. Judas Tree. 11. Kuhreihen. (Ranz de Vaches) 12. Lie. 13. Mouth. 14.Natures Slave. 15. Our Room. 16. Photo Sensitive. 17. Quantitative Teasing.

quantitative images

17. Quantitative Teasing
A late winter frost, sharp as a church spire,
pricks my alien body in these unfamiliar surroundings.
My eyelids flickered as if waking from sleep.
The occasional beam of light appeared out of thin air,
traversed the wall like ghostly exploratory finger
and disappeared into nothing.
I fix my eyes on this strange unconsummated marriage.
This bond, guilt edged, where words are sacred.
I gamble with verbs and nouns, take risks with adjectives,
haemorrhaging a blood red deficit of words and numbers for you to crunch.
You sit in quietude, your passivity intrigues.
Reassuringly straight backed, occasionally disturbing your posture
with a cross-legged Doctor Melfi esque flirt.
You inject me with confidence, working your way through my vulnerability,
all the way to the money shot. I yearn for your favour.
You tease…you thirty pound an hour tease.
‘in the vanilla moon lit hideaway of the car port she would mischievously flash me her breasts through the kitchen window, making me drink her in. I loved it all, the showing off’
When my early brio runs dry, I stare at the floor,
unable to speak. Spent up, a queue of creditors at my door.
A victim of cuts and lies, a miscarriage,
a misappropriation, unable to save…even myself.
I am at your mercy, while you deconstruct my fucked up words
to find a solution to my fucked up state.
Like Eloisa I am tortured by this unwilling vow of silence
as you watch my contagion spread. Are you willing to invest?
You tease…you thirty pound an hour tease.
‘she plunged recklessly towards April and I listened to her pearl drop tears hitting the floor above me in the hope that she was melting. My own heart ached against my ribs’
Welcome to my car crash, welcome to my tangled wreck.
You temptress, with one eye on my tale of woe
and one on eye on the pot of gold.
For I am bankrupt on the inside stopping short of howling at the moon,
and I came to you, not a moment too soon.
You listen to my words and watch them bleed
and in return you will ease me out of the red
and into the black. For that I will be forever in your debt.
You tease…you thirty pound an hour tease

——— ♥♥♥ ———

photo sensitive images

16. Photo Sensitive
‘Fold your arms’ he heard her say.
Not soft rounded words,
not delicious melt in the mouth words, luxuriant and sensual,
not silly words, rolling and tumbling with child like innocence.
‘Fold your arms’. So he did.
With his back against the walled courtyard, bathed in April sunshine,
dust from the aging mortar clung to his jacket
…and with furtive glances to the lens,
the shutter whirred and clicked,
converting incoming photons with each finger flick.
An electronic aphrodisiac.
He took a walk and the lens followed.
She crouched a bare shoulder photographers crouch,
looking professional, looking for fresh angles.
He walked towards her, his eyes lowered,
looking deep into the well of her clavicle.
‘Wait’ he heard her say,
with upright stance and sideways glance she released a hand,
and with it casually brushed the dust from his jacket.
Not a gentle soothing hand,
that once cradled a baby’s head as it suckled at her breast,
not a loving hand that moulded her maquettes of torso and head,
or fed lovers strawberry’s or gripped their flesh.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
For these are digitally enhanced times,
words and hands divorced from their worlds,
distinct, separate.
He walked out of the shadow into the retina piercing light,
passed faceless passers-by and he thought of how it was…
then of how it is…and it fill well with him.
She was still there, flitting in and out of frame,
burdened with last click-itis.
One for the road…clickety-click,
for old times sake…clickety click

——— ♥♥♥ ———

our room images

15. Our Room
That apprehensive first walk up Finkle Street,
across your threshold; my body an adrenalin rush of conjuring tricks,
ready to exchange my tired wings for words.
To your room, witness to many an apprehensive tete a tete,
a queue of neophytes humbled by the innocence of your handshake
and the gentleness of your open ended questions.
Our early exchanges soothe like flickering candlelight,
you cautiously probe into an open chasm of truth decay,
with a gentle expert touch that makes me flush.
I pause, reaching for water from your half full glass,
so I may rinse and spit out stubborn verbal plaque.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Once inside, your room  became our room just as you said it would,
Our room of anecdotes and tears for open wounds;
the image of my suitcase lying unattended by the door,
the one you had me open and encouraged me to explore.
I lifted the lid and nervously eyed each stain, embedded spots
of bitterness and regret, of foolish whims and pain,
I thought no tablet nor magic powder could restore.
Yet restore them we did, over weeks and months,
delicately lifting each anionic mark…
The blood stain on a collar from a shave too close,
the wine glass circle from a drink too far,
the wax from a candle that burned too bright.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

nature's slave images

14. Natures Slave
Nurtured in the acid earth, outgrowing flowers at your feet,
evergreen and resinous, a spiral of pseudo whorl.
The coldness of your Northern exposure,
wrinkled slate coloured skin covering your mystical sap
that man and machine stripped bare, untapped.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Cut and shaped, rough edges removed,
rendered, auctioned, sold off like a slave.
Witnessed many a celebration, a giant fiddleback plate,
crumbs of comfort moist finger tips picked up.
Became a stage for children’s imagination where intergalactic wars
and dinosaur jaws would fight to the death.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Played host to many a sub-text of pleasure and sadness,
you were danced around and chased around,
witnessed to early evening strokes and caresses, heard every lie and curse.
Held firm as you took her body weight,
endured all manor of marks and stains, circles and scars,
too many buried secrets inside your grains.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Found cowering in a corner,
a discarded fixture from a part time romance. Cold to the touch,
draped in a veil of regret, you warmed to the restorative charms
of Esther’s caring hands. And here you sit,
in your olive green coat; new shape, new purpose, new weight,
with silver mementos and kings and queens for company.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

mouth images

13. Mouth
I am unsettled by images, betrayed by mouths,
ageing, wordless, bitter, vengeful, adulterous mouths.
My neck nerves strain, weighed down with the responsibility
of placating this box of tricks inside my head.
I sit before you, the star witness in my own trial,
my shoulders seized with cramp like knots, outwitted by pain.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
When her mouth drooped became distorted,
it was all I could do wipe its parched lips,
forcing a crooked smile and the occasional bubble
I wish I could have pricked to fulfill any last requests.
Alas I was powerless, spoon-feeding impotent crumbs of comfort.
It slipped down the bed covers and drew its final breath.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Lover mouth, Elektra, temporal and self-absorbed,
I look for ways to sample its electricity, still.
But I’m left biting the mouthpiece, electrodes at my temples,
anticipating the lightening to my skull.
I’m in remission, the patches on my x-ray are words.
Words that blot my landscape, like a river without a soul.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
The vengeful mouth, the one that emitted smokey groans at sunrise,
that formed a perfect O to accept my language,
retches and spits any last membrane of truth.
Thick skinned and chastened,
burning like two lumps of phosphorous.
I watch it engorge on ice cold packs of green neck lovers.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
…and you, tight lipped as you watch me inch across this tightrope,
holding my breath between thoughts.
What can your mouth do?
Your work starts now.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

lie image

12. Lie
 Her lie was not born into this world,
or worse than any other.
Her lie was not born into this world,
to be capriciously abandoned,
‘for better or worse, til death do us part’.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
He gazed at her undressing in the cool of the evening,
her alluring slight of hand dropped intimate clothing to the floor.
Her talk was so bold, fabricated from the mother of all tongues.
Her impassive eyes looked up, his body floated like the opening chords
of a Richard Hawley song,
‘hear in your arms…hear in your arms’,
as he lay on the bed while she gave great head
in their meat free Grasmere Hotel.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
The skilled liar learns to appropriate
as much of the truth as they can,
assembled from their building blocks of facts.
Her body and it sexual prowess
mercilessly enticed him into a cauldron of naked ambition,
that left him duped like the unsuspecting prison guard,
seduced by her ruinous charms, unable to raise the alarm.
His head still swimming with thoughts of flesh tipped concentric circles,
the searchlight’s beam failed to spot the hole in the wire fence,
clinically cut, making good her escape,
from Ruskin’s hallowed hills,
headlong into a nest of snakes.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
He used to cast an eye over the promises they made,
secular words spoken with intimacy
‘when all April shone…when all April shone’
Unconditional truths, timeless and worthy
‘all kisses sweet…all kisses sweet’.
But promises like lies, assembled from blocks of facts,
eventually crumble in to small fragments
and the lie that dropped into his pool
spread like a cancer of  rippled blue
into her world of pathological neutrality.

——— ♥♥♥———

kuhreihan images

11. Kuhreihen (Ranz des vaches)
(Kuh-rei-hen, a traditional melody played or sung, longing for perceived happier times)
When I cross the threshold into your room
I arrive at a moment of surrender,
with boundries to cross and desire to expose.
I have a million reasons for being here.
I have a million reasons for wanting to leave
—— ¤¤¤ ——
I will tell you about the time I was an saint
with language unrestrained and full of song,
a dream world where the wildness of nature survives.
I will tell you about the time I was a sinner,
a melody indulgent and spent,
a nightmare world where my wordless mouth chokes on errant feathers.
For hear I am, a rash of cliches itching on my skin,
‘love with your whole nature and leave the rest to fate’,
there’s love and being loved’ and ‘love, its never too late’
Its cliches that cause the trouble.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Nostalgia (nostos), that glittering allure, that sentimental bond,
nostalgia (algos), that pain from an old wound.
Watch as I herd my memories down from the hills,
and if you are quiet and still you can hear my song in the distance,
nastos and algos, saint and sinner, who knows which is which,
with words I would have said and heard you say,
kisses I would have offered and had you repay,
scars I would reopen to let nature have its way.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

judas tree images

10. Judas Tree
‘easy to drive to’ I said,
our chosen villa, set deep in the majesty of a Tuscan hillside.
As darkness closed in and the roads narrowed,
my phrasebook Italian proved useless. Frustration grew.
We never discussed blame. You knew where it lay.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Absorbing the scent of rosemary in late afternoon strolls,
the crumbling hilltop villages to explore,
the fields of sunflowers wilting in the sun like soldiers on parade,
the crispness of deep fried zucchini flowers fresh to the table.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
We would sit, you and I, in the glow worm warmth of the evening,
seduced by the prose of the purple landscape, drinking our wine,
kissing away the closeness of our secrets,
held together by a fragile bridge of saliva,
connected to our flush parted lips.
Deep into the night your left hand would drop
and you’d silently swim with the breathless night sky,
blessed with Orion.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
When I spoke of our idyll, of making this our home,
I relished the enthusiasm you willingly displayed
(how ironic to speak of the future under the shade of a judas tree)
long after the the stubborn bolt had clicked,
long after a final look,
long after the dust had settled from the narrow track.
I meant for years, for many years,
for all our years, to be there with you.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

in vino images

9. In Vino Veritas
’round and round with the glass boys
as fast as you can,
there’s virtue in truth
and truth in good wine’  *
Her molten eyes simmered in jet wet mascara,
peering from behind a curtain of blonde,
a symptom of their divergent Teesside rift.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Whitby’s declaration of love among the raucous din
and beer soaked tables seemed a distant memory;
she never questioned his motives then.
From that first molten tongued kiss,
his bed became a warmer place.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
He ghosted through clouds,
while she witnessed his heart turn to ash,
drifting on an opiate wind of false dawns.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Convinced that all truth lay fermenting
behind the refuge of crushed purple skin,
Tacitus became God and lover,
her crimson tongue a serpent wrapped in vine,
lodged in that force of nature she called mouth.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
He nursed her and cursed her,
wrote her sonnets by the dozen,
licked teardrops by the gallon from her half German skin.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
She unplugged the cork, unscrewed the cap
and he would mark the second label with his eyes,
see her white hot fissure open and crack,
to reveal the language of demons
where angels cower and poets fear to tread.
* extract from the glee ‘In Vino Veritas by Benjamin Cooke



2 thoughts on “Angelspit (I-Q)

    Tony. said:
    January 31, 2013 at 2:04 pm

    “Into her world of pathological neutrality”. Ah, man…….. Shakes head . I love these poems


    daveyoungpoet responded:
    February 3, 2013 at 12:59 am

    Ah yes ‘Lie’…so many told every day all over the world – some have no effect at all, some are worthy, some hurt and some kill the very thing inside you that makes love worthwhile…no guesses for knowing which one the poem is about…cheers mate – thanks for the support and enjoy whats next..D


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