11 February 2009

mark walton

The Maze

My memories of meeting you
are kind of scattered.
My mind shattered by pills.
Glittering fragments
splintered on the dance floor,
picking up reflections
from the mirror-ball lights
and the whites of eyes.

I’m feeling alright.

It’s dark and hot
and I’m lost in the rhythm,
submerged as the bass quickens through me.

Someone pushes past
and I surface in a panic,
gulping air and looking ‘round,
and you’re there beside me.

Smooth, tight, white body.
Jaw set, eyes wide.
A handsome young lad
as lost as I am.

You turn,

and with a smile
you break the frozen drug mask
into pieces.
And beneath it,
dark eyes dance.

Damn, you’re handsome.
And I want some.

But before I can say a word,
the warmth of your smile
hits my chest,
breaks in a wave over my head,
and in a rush,
I’m submerged once more.

Before I disappear completely,
you grab my hand
and whisper in my ear,

‘Follow me’.

You lead me through the
labyrinth of passages
and stairs,
through a sea of sweating flesh
and beer and piss,
to God-knows-where.
Somewhere cooler, calmer,
with people seated everywhere.

A low buzz instead of a tom-tom beat.

You say:
‘Come here’,
‘Chill out’,
‘Sit there’.

I slide down the wall
to the floor,
legs apart.
You sit between them,
cool back to my chest.
My arms around you
cross your heart,
my chin upon your shoulder.
We’re a perfect fit,
though I’m guessing
I’m a few years older.

‘So, what’s your name..?’
Well it’s a start.

‘What’ve you done?’
‘Where you from?’
‘Want some water? gum? anything?’
‘Can I…?’
‘Doesn’t matter… Kiss me.’

A low hum and people stare
at the two skinhead boys over there.
Girls smile. Boys glare.

‘What d’you do?’
‘What you into?’
‘Anything really, what about you?’
‘Take me home and find out’.

More disjointed,
dirty talk,
‘til the words run out,
and pills kick in again,
and the filthy beat
coming through the floor,
drags us




once more into the music.

Nine Wishes

I wish I'd never looked now.
Never taken the careless opportunity
to see who the message came from,
or what it said.

My need to know
over-riding your right to privacy.

I wish I'd never seen the words
that told me what you'd done,
behind my back
and how much fun you'd had.

Too much information
for my overactive imagination.

I wish you hadn't lied to me,
or blinked at me in
slowly dawning comprehension,
as you realised
that you'd been caught out in your deception.

I wish you hadn't gone ahead
and made the meeting prearranged.
Leaving me alone to my devices,
whilst you indulged your pleasures
and your secret, unshared vices.

I wish that things were different,
that the trust remained untarnished.
That each phone call,
and each absence,
didn't fill me with such anguish.

I wish for naive innocence returned.
I wish the fresh green leaves of love
remained unburned.
I wish I'd had more self-respect
and that I'd simply walked away
and never told you what I'd seen.

I wish that it was you, not me,
left stood bewildered and bereft,
and wishing for what might have been.

For A Friend

Boyfriend-dodging for stolen kisses
in recessed darkness.
You, rubber clad, mohawked,
dangerous looking.
A friendship seeded in furtive
suckfuckfumbled moments.

We swap numbers.

Waking next morning I find your cock strap
in the pocket of my jeans,
warmsoft leather between my fingers,
and, playing Prince Charming,
I come to your house to return it.

You look smaller in daylight.
Glasses on.
Mohican softtousledblond.
Both more sheepish
than last night’s fuckclub bravado.

Pushed against the wall for more slowgrope kisses,
‘Can’t stay, Sexy – I’ll be back tho’.

But then you’re gone.

Back to the metropolis.
Convalesced and West Countried out.
Bored and horny for more.

Business trips brought new adventures.
Cheap Kings Cross hotel rendezvous.
Running like wolves through neon Soho,
leering and mischief making.
Friendship forged in
Stella and ketamine.

Mornings waking bruised and confused.

But we survive confusion and contusions,
diagnoses and suicide bombers,
breakdowns and overdoses.
We share confidences and condolences,
and when the bullshit mask of confidence slips,
there’s no questions,
just the softest of soft shoulders,
or the sharpest of whiplash quips.

Each the other’s ‘other boyfriend’.
The one who knows,
who sees, sideways maybe,
through the jokes and the jackass laughs,
the go-on-then-just-another nights.

who knows where the bodies are buried,
where the self-destruct button lies,
and just how close the finger hovers over it.

And with each hard truth
the respect grows,
the bond strengthens,
and catching the glint in your eye
we down another,
light a defiant cigarette,
and laughing, ‘Dare you’, disappear
into another suckfuckfumbled Soho night.

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