beauty, love, lust, men, sex, women

feral ballet

We are at our most inventive


When there is no thought

Only action

Wrestling around

A spark of conversation

A bonfire of consent

My hands, large and dark around your wrists

The right angle in the dark

A feather breath of pressure

Soft laughter and then the tight grunt




On languid waves of sensation

Your pale skin against my fur

Shivering with need as we wrap around

One another

Some mysteries are solved

In the warm, damp dark

Laughing like children

A feral ballet

Hills of the sheets

And I touch your face

Sending the ache you

Inspire through everything



beauty, love, masculinity, poetry, women

You And I

We sit

Same warm brown eyes

Equal amounts of silver

In the beards

‘So what did we learn?’


I think I found God

After a fashion

And beneath his gaze

Real or imagined,

It did not matter

Some parts of me


Others thickened

I am leaner

Kinder to myself

But new hungers awoke

Whilst the compass 

Pointed to my true north.

And still

I remain

Acute to the bitter bubbling away

Of chaos

But couched in the armour 

Of purpose

I can lift my sword in defence of


Those who I love,

Near and far,

‘What about you?’

I still exist,

A tenant somewhere,

Perhaps a ghost in a dream house,

But leave me with your interest in

Self destruction

And the taste for t shirts with logos

‘I love you ‘

As you should,

I’m gorgeous. 

One fades

And well, 

I’m not even here,


(And this will get me exiled from

Many a perfumed garden)




A single word,

And we can never be strangers

To one another,


And I.

beauty, love, masculinity, poetry, women


To remain

As a tree remains 


Yet responsive

Supple in intuition

the subtlety of

How we interact

when all my work is done

And I can then

Turn my attention to you

Because as glorious a distraction you 


Nothing shudders to a halt

Because I bear it with a smile

Stronger for the resistance

And my root seeks the fertile soil

finding purchase

Your bedrock shifts

And you feed

Sustain something rich

As summer night

Shelter beneath me

I have you:



beauty, love, masculinity, men, poetry, women

Persistent buddha, gentle bear

This year

Tried to break me

With anguish

Pleasures so acute

They were indistinguishable

As a mute singing

To their gods

The impersonal furies

Their heartfelt heralds

Sought to carve their names

Into my bones

But here I remain

Further forward

Despite a glacial pace

So deep it made me wonder

If I moved at allmade

But I look back

See the scarred ruins 

Look down then up

The wine of persistence

Sweet on my lips

Still, reach beneath

My shirt, rough palm 

Against a heart which holds

rhythm no matter how off the time 

the world appears

I remain





And sat, smiling as 

I consider how 

Little frightens me anymore

And when I hold you

It is with the strength

Of grace

Remember, my love

I can endure anything

So let your winds howl

the rains fall

And my smile

Persistent buddha

A bear, gentle even as I lick blood

From my teeth

Nostrils aflare

At the honey of your 


beauty, love, men, poetry, women

Past Amber

children without fathers

Arrested in the amber of their

Curiosity of what it is 

To have time with one

Good, bad, indifferent

I am one

And spent a long

Time walking free of

Absence and its shadow

Warm enough to hold my own

close and in turn

I’ve found the father within

Offer its paternal benevolence

And hold you when you falter

Stroke away pain and discomfort

Build a fire

Wrap a fur around you

With a kind smile

Patience to the vagaries

And if I help someone 

Past amber

Then my life gains the light

Of older wisdom

beauty, love, poetry, women

it still gets done

talk until my throat is raw

reading on chill bus seats

writing with the laptop balanced

on my knee

it still gets done

foot rubs, trips to the shop,

emails at odd hours

it still gets done

sleep treated like a cherished friend

slip beneath warm sheets to

open mouthed kisses

seeing the scarlet candied glow of lights

and not being upset by it

it still gets done

almost too much to write about

to tell you

in a warm whisper

coffee and cinnamon on my breath

leaner and hairier than before

bu this, the secret to a life

which still makes of its burdens

i love you

it still gets done

love, men, poetry, women


No new school of


No undiscovered branch of 


No star on the wall at Langley

No street named after me



Writing to make sense of the


Sacrifices made now

To the tomorrow

and being a man

Worth fucking

Worth fighting

A friend of quiet certainty

A father who loves and teaches

These things

I am 

Or perceived myself to be

Despite, sometimes

The evidence