Sunday, 29 April 2012



We meet at last, My Friend,
Man of the moment
Legend says you hold the key to the Writer’s voice
On a thick, silver chain around your neck
That it holds a vial of Oscar’s fresh blood
Or perhaps a lock of hair
That you prefer a gin and tonic
To a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir
That you are rather indiscreet
When you are a couple of sheets to the wind

I hear you enjoy a rhyme, a ditty,
A poem of sweet intention
That my words reached across
Time and space
You heard me calling for inspiration
And chose to inhabit my world

We meet at last, my dear,
In The green Carnation at Midnight;
We spend our time in elevated suspension
Picking glitter off each others shoulders
We are of separate bodies,
Yet our heartbeats synchronise
Our words do pass from ear to ear,
Yet not a tongue appears through teeth.
With your brilliant mind

We are bonded far beyond convention
Metaphysically entwined
As you sip another gin and tonic
I watch you in a state of trance
The most gentle of creatures:
My heart pounds, an unnatural rhythm

As we do our dance
As we converse with just our eyes
Lazily reading each other’s minds
I tell you why I am here.
I need the key to the Writer’s voice
That is why I cannot speak.

The legend says the muse will come ,
Bringing beautiful things
In a flash of green light
In the darkest hour of midnight
In the special place I write.

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