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The Identity.

I conversed with a man behind a mask

He though himself hidden but I knew who he was.

I knew not his name nor his face

But I knew who he was. 



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wending webs


we wend through webs
of cobbled communication
worked carefully to window
our weaves confluence with
writ, winding our wisdoms
with coloured wool
we card and we weave
patterns of wrought
welds, to wrap weak corners
cushion weariness and
coddle wisps of wondering
with comfort.. we crave
creativity in a cadenced weft,
while we contrive the
warp to carry our weight
of whispered confessions
wending, in the cloudy cobwebs
of cobbled communion.
Close your eyes and weave
a chairde* the consolation
of words crooning in confluence,
woven and writ.


 (*ah cawr-de… my friends)

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I'd kiss
The red off your lips
Until they were
Just glossy pink,
And what would
Between the sheets
Would make anyone
My passion
And devotion
Lies only you,
As my fingers 
Comb your hair
Like my words
Brush your thoughts,
And my lips
Utter all the musings
Of your body,
How all your curves
Give way under my 
Calloused hands,
Like my mind
Gives way
Only to you...
APAD13 - 097 © okpoet

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why I trust Snow Patrol more than Love

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Wet Dream


she knows I watch

through the lattices

and lets me

softly, silk slips from her shoulders

elegant - shimmering

steps into the pool

the waters blessed

as she slinks into its cool

radiating ripples, clear crystal blue

swallow this woman I love

I watch – adore as she ascends

each line and feature

each moistened curl

perfectly dripping

as if made expressly for me

lush body shines

as I watch her dry

each touch imagined my own

gently caressing

her fingers excite

reveal her desires

as she hears me

express my own

and smiles her knowing smile

her robe, silken,

whispers to her skin

the love I send


as she walks away


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Reach Inside

Vibrate the strings

at the centre

of my culmination,


my oscillating Oroboros question

of "why?" that bites

it's own tail eternally,

dissolves the eternal O

to I, seeing only one dimension.


See if there is sensation on that scale

If there is still an I to see

Or simply infinity

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Prance about nonchalantly

Wearing short sleeves unaware of the scars on my wrist

I’ve grown used to them

They came to me whilst I was in pain 

And they stayed through my happiness, as a point of reference

As a reminder

Never again stoop this low

All I worry about is the answer I’ll give little Tommy when he asks

Daddy, where did you get those scars?

Maybe I’ll tell him I used to be a bear wrestler

He loves stories

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want to send
a poem sailing
around the world
my own Marco
my Marco Polo
and everybody
will take it
into their houses
to show the kids
to take to bed
to smack around after a bad day
at the corporate battlegrounds
to put into a bottle
to throw into sea
it’ll be
all about you
every letter
every drunken ink glob
about you
about you
about me
captivated by you,
a fish in your net
I’ll bottle it myself
my name I’ll sign
"Be mine," I’ll rhyme
throw it out to sea
and hope
you will one day swim
swim, swim
and the empty bottle
(Bourbon emptied into my stomach)
will reach you
will smack you on the head
and you’ll take it to shore
and read it
but you don’t like
the ocean
do you?

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The Summons

The summons came long after we’d 
retired for the night.
We weren’t ready, 
but we followed anyway,
with time enough for parting glance 
toward the ones we loved, 
off’ring smiles of reassurance 
pasted over hopeless eyes. 

Matched pace with cosmic guilt, we walked
through streets, where wind blew hot,
and stole the breath 
right from our quivering lungs.
We licked our lips, stood straight, matched pace 
with sin, and stumbled on, 
inhaling tastes of what 
was never to come.  

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Anticipation speaks in silent glances

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