Apres sex

There’s a bloody wall
I bang against
not to be like you.
There’s a f ucking fence
that makes
no sense,
there’s a god in the sky
in a space ship,
that few would dare to deny.
There is a special breath
that’s the last
a useless past
that dies when people pass.
Theres a bloody wall
I splatter with
wet clotted dreams,
the castasides, the finished
the imbetweens.
Love
where you find it
is a mirror
reflecting
the person you screw.
Whilst cleaning their spills
with a tissue
you feel for an après sex moment
they may be, just may be, like you.

I'm sensing some real frustration here with writing. A real love/hate relationship. Wish I had the answer. Read Sphere. I've edited it to show my own frustration that little bit more.

Many of your poems feel in some way like a man raging against himself, JB. Many of your poems are exceptional.







J

This is another outstanding poem, JB, strong in passion and anger. It is as if après sex lets N catch a glimpse into his partner's vulnerability very much like his own... of so it seems to me.

I love it. :D

Thank you Delta Jack Bar and Twota for your kind words. I have edited with a sharp axe and hopefully improved this.

Aw, you cut the hillwalker!

JB, it would be great to hear this poem read aloud. Not sure what your edits were, other than trimmin' the walker, but it reads as fine as ever...

This reader was just having similar thoughts to:

Quote:

---

Love
where you find it
is a mirror
reflecting
the person you screw.

---

... and how often our romantic 'successes' are less the product of our efforts or emotions and more the effect of vanity (ours) or dual vanity (ours and theirs in harmony).






J