markbousfield

As the postman delivers a milky load of letters
on a stamp matted by a persistent golden shoe horn (horning and whoring until dewy dusk)
I lay with my brother in a ditch,
his other holiday a mother of dosage,
of eternal forgetting,
and onto Berlin,
classical and clean,
Ich bin ein Berliner,
To fall foul to the muse of man who is much better...
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So I let them dance to the beat of my bones,
in the land where my singing brother lowed.
To steal a bullet in romance's first swoon
I left my skin to bathe in the glory of the gentle metronome.

I swept and swayed under the fire that she chose,
she fucked and flayed me until the morning arose.
Under lust's fatuous sin she knows...
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And me,
all summer-honeyed skin cuffed into the winter,
oh yes,
with his dewy waltz of Friesian glassy,
sassy to the sailors,
all double chinned in lullabies of times with hooves,
of all the fucking crowds,
oh times have passed,
there's a cat filling his fill with chewy mice,
meowing by a milk churn.

All the breast I could fleetingly call my own
flashed in...
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And there I was,
raking your nails over my warm skin
dreaming of a colour I would never see.
I let slip a choice cut of affection,
as though some impish madness
had come and possessed me.

I waned from my precocious youth.
My most carnal and ferocious work,
my fire and rock of moss-bitten bitterness,
my lust,
he betrayed me.
He exposed a want...
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Incumbent as I am
I allow the healing waters (in lieu of Summer's promise)
to arrive once more,
to harvest even the deserts of the Moon
is a dream a long way away,
away from your walls,
from my favourite oppressions,
lost to do as I please,
faith is harder to need as you no longer lay me down,
let me go,
let me swim...
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The Day My Heart (and Body) Broke...

By Mark Bousfield

The dull blade on the razor cuts my neck, listlessly I stand there like some statue caught in the rays of a fresh days sun. The blood forms a bubble over the wound, swelling with coagulated vitality the vein slowly closes. Still, I am immobile, the blade held mid air in my right hand. As...
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Imprimatur (Def: official permission or approval, to give one's approval)

by Mark Bousfield

So there it was that I awoke, the daze gripped my head as though I was dreaming once again that I was pushing my fingers through my skull, then there was Theo. A man I had barely met lying prostrate in a pool of sweat and blood at the nub of my...
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Oh and there it was that she lay,
I,
as the spook in the shadows,
Boo,
I watched through my claws,
Almost as though I couldn't bear to look,
and it's raining,
damn it's cold up here,
the speckles of her blood glisten through her sweet soft skin,
the best way to keep it in,
I used to think she was pure,
then she drowned...
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The blemishes are raised like a bruise,
as a pulse of terror in the wrists of the weak
we lay close together as kindred spirits,
like siamese twins welcomed into death in unison,
This the crux I use to fall further and farther
into love and all that it beholds,
it is the flicker of guilt,
the nuance of menace
and the creeping self doubt...
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Today,
I wished upon a scar,
a map of experience
so defined in His binds,
an opiate,
vulgarity hanging like a loose wreath
around my feet,
covered in sacred cloth my skin is cold.
Alone in the street,
the only thought keeping me warm
is that maybe sometimes rape
is not so different to peaceful sleep.

And the first spoke second,
"On any road to...
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