The Verge

If I could understand why my mind sways
why it is not satisfied with surface existence
creating mystery and mischief
illegalities
why it is not real in spiritual emptiness
why it needs danger and complications
adventures on the London bridge
the night
the kiss
on the verge of the Tamise

why
can’t it concentrate deeply
on cooking in the domestic cauldron
why my mind
flies
to your lips

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Midnight, too late to go home

what is love a compassion a connection of souls at the bottom of existence
why do you need any more explanations
the ability to see yourself in the other bum
without judgement
last passion insanity of the senses
despite the darkness of the park where all this is happening
in the night
in secrecy
dirty love lust
you can call it that
but for me this is life
this is a beautiful encounter
of truth
without the world and day coming into it and spoiling
our secret forbidden love
with broken heels and lost iPhones
in the trees of passion
eternal under the British sky
who cares if they judge us
it is us its ours its our love our need our compassion
the bitches with masculine harsh words
and the successful machos
who cares
why can’t we die in those leaves
but happy on this bench at midnight