The Purest Ecstacy.

Within a strictly private chamber
we entertain trite conversation,
assured that others speak critically of us
in other rooms
that lack the dancing drapes and lavish adornments.
I have overheard their misconceptions;
I do not care for their opinions.
In attendance are four guests and I,
but the centrepieces of this room;
this house; this street; this town
are the two women who sprawl themselves
invitingly upon purple cushions
and whisper, ‘play my games.’
These two are rare breeds.

One with skin as polished as frost,
crystal kaleidoscope eyes
locked fervently on my own:
Madame Desideria Madeleine Achard;
a mystery of exquisite tastes; between thirty and forty,
though it differs every time I inquire.
Her lip twitches into a smirk on one side,
until she cannot control herself
and beams a telling smile.
Too much of this temptress will ruin a man.
Though now she is on her pedestal, soon
I will consume her - crush her -
and forget altogether
why I forbade myself from indulging.

On the other side sits a contrasting luxury,
a budding flower, innocent
yet often misunderstood.
She calls herself simply Mary,
though I have heard she goes by other names.
We have met many times before,
in dim lighting or at gatherings
where her presence slows time.
The scent of her perfume sedates me
and awakens a rapture
that I feel only in her company.
She caresses my shoulders;
my mind; my spirit with sensitive touches
of her ashen flowing hands.

When I awake Desideria will be gone
and I will be glad of it,
and though Mary remains
her alluring facets will have burned away.
I will draw the curtains,
each hour hand and first digit will go unnoticed,
and we will appreciate her company
until well after she has gone;
until the last trace of her scent has dissolved.
I will hear often of Desideria’s frolics,
but I will avoid her confrontations
because I know what is good for me.
Mary, on the other hand,
is always welcome in my home.

I Don't Speak Newspeak.

I can get the bigger picture from the window seat of an aeroplane,
and I could fly around the world with all the ideas I’d entertain,
but it’s normal to feel pressure with the buildings rising tall
and forget what you can see is hardly anything at all.
The artificial lights obscure the stars,
but who’s trying to see that far?
When we’re judging our happiness on what other people earn
or listening to anchormen as they raise new concerns -
it’s poison and we’re hooked on it;
we’re settled; this is home.

I dreamed a slick man in a well-pressed suit who thought that he was free
but after years of bending his back and the truth he had an epiphany.
He removed his tie - it always seemed too tight around his neck -
then walked home and burrowed through heaps of cash to find his self respect.
He replaced his black ink pens
with sets of coloured crayons.
But I’m not doing myself favours with these promising pipe dreams
‘cause I had another where that miserable man was letting off some steam
in an alley with a young girl,
indifferent to her screams.

So I try to do my best but I don’t do all I can do.
Our one hope is that these rotten apples’ seeds yield finer fruit;
that each soldier sees his brother's face no matter where he points his gun
and the children abandon our trite pursuits in search of real freedom.
We should clear the path of our debris
to make their passage easy
‘cause right now the future isn’t looking so good for the kids
they’re cherry cheeked and doe eyed or living spoilt on benefits
and when half the world’s on fire
they will cheer and wave their flags.

It’s just a natural reaction; if I’m frightened I will run
and I’ll embrace the dangers that await over the horizon.
And perhaps no matter how far we go the borders will subside
but we’ll have lived without our fetters and be contented when we die.
So baby let’s go right away
‘cause I know that if we choose to stay
our futures will be typed out for us up on PC screens.
The countless flashing cursors cause me great unease,
and there’s no way of slowing it,
this cannon ball rolls on.