Grace

The waves approach in grey swathes,

The peach-swollen sun ripples its grace.

I have come, here, to the water’s edge

A man without life, a man on a ledge.

Toes in the water, my mind in limbo…

Could this just be a dream though?

© K.N.Liddington

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Gilbert + George

The wonderful Gilbert + George,

Revel, as their images shock and absorb,

Iconoclasts of London’s finest,

Their impact and legacy are timeless.

 

First ever joint Royal Academicians,

With rebel wits of sharp precision,

Inspiring and awakening eyes far and wide

As their artworks, artful insight provides.

 

Hail, the ever-innovative artists,

That thought-provoke and insist.

 

© K.N.Liddington

Bask

I’d rather be sat here amidst these smiling, stranger-faces,

Than back at home weeping over my long-lost graces.

 

Though I may be alone yet surrounded by the many,

I find comfort in the sound of them making merry.

 

The cavern in my stomach is muffled by their chatter,

Seemingly, my pain, here, doesn’t really matter.

 

I can bask in the glow of their happy exchanges,

And hope and wish that my own circumstance changes.

 

© K.N.Liddington

London Tonight

London tonight – is how I feel.

The rain makes rivulets of eels,

Black tarmac and slick pavement,

Wet leather and callous intent.

 

The wind and the streets and the smell…

I see my torment in its mirror for a spell.

© K.N.Liddington

Nothing

He didn’t see it… in the moments where the love bled out of me,

like the leaving of a plague.

I boiled it forth from me.

I scourged myself of love in its rampant, volcanic rivers.

I died, and I lived for it… till I denounced it.

Let every sand grain coarsely erode me, till nothing but deference is left.

Nothing but the blackest night.

Nothing but the darkest soul.

Nothing.

© K.N.Liddington

The Theatre Of Sin

A thunderous theatre of sin,

Where all the luscious kisses begin.

Torrid twisted corridors…

Exhorted ecstasy on all floors.

 

A rolling dance of soft, supple flesh,

Of steam rising from lovers’ breath.

Swirling beams illuminate the mass,

Mirrors share caresses in the black.

 

Fingers slope inward seeking succour,

Bodies flirt and defy with sweet rancour.

A circus of sex and a spectacle of pleasure,

Go inside and find the tempted treasure.

 

A sepulchre of the dizzy, dancing dead,

The light has not forsaken these golden heads,

A myriad of soft lips in corsets and feathers,

Slender obscure men dripping in leather.

 

Welcome to the doomsday ball!

Hark! Come one, come all!

We can satisfy the hunger,

Of tearing desire asunder!

© K.N.Liddington

Three Times

Three times.

Three times, in the middle of the night

I’ve woke mid-nightmare as I shove you so hard, out of our bed.

Get out

Get out

My subconscious said.

 

The echoes of your actions suppressed in my mind;

it’s hollow haunted corridors run filthy with your lies.

 

Three times.

Three times, in the middle of the night

I’ve woke to cold sweats and you clung to me, as a babe to a breast.

Get out

Get out

May I never rest?

 

The shackles you once thought bound me to you forever,

are rattling off with each succeeding night terror.

 

Three times.

Three times, in the middle of the night

I’ve woke to hot tears and palpitations, my heart filled with dread.

Get out!

Get out!

This love – is dead.

© K.N.Liddington