Dear Diary of Martin X - 31/08/2016

I miss your hair and your lips. 

The soft rustle of your breasts 

and the arm of Orion in your smile. 

I miss your disheveled intercourse, 

your searing deliberations 

and the open flower of your solitary gaze. 

I miss the movement of your cheeks, 

the illusion that I can see your heartbeat 

under the thinly woven skin of your dress. 

I miss your feet and how I want to play footsie with them, 

I miss watching you wander nonchalant 

through the street like a statue without a plinth 

like a siren on holiday 

like a demon at tea time 

like the shadow of the poem you escaped and ran away from. 

I miss your aroma which pervades my senses, 

I miss the intimate refraction of reticence between our awkward chuckles 

and I miss the sound of your voice

which enters into my body and reverberates with my blood beats. 

I miss you sight and sound and smell. 

I miss you body and soul and wake.

I miss your reflection in my glass, 

I miss your breath in my nostrils 

I miss your smoke and your defiance 

the shape of your stance 

and the suggestion of your frequency - 

you're like a radio wave who goes right through me 

leaving music in my eyes as you swallow-part and fly.

 I miss your touch, your colour, your arms, 

your knees. 

I miss the rhythm of your transience 

the looseness of your posture 

the glimpse of your tongue 

and the demureness of your freckles. 

I miss you. I wish I could see you. 

You make me happy. 

I want to touch you and breathe you 

and taste you and feel you. 

Thank you for your being thank you for your play. 

I'm with you in spirit every minute every hour, 

I want to be with you on the bus and in the woods 

and on the road and in the shower. 

Send me projections a picture of your plaster. 

You are the breeze, you blow through my clothes. 

You are the rain.

You trickle down the back of my neck. 

You are the essence of the muse 

and the image of the Rose 

You are the scent - I am the blind

You are the Damaclean sword

I can't get out of my mind.

Sent from my iPhone

Dear Diary of Martin X 30/08/2016

It's good that the force 

which drives my hard cock 

occasionally abates and allows 

my virulent and bootless passion 

to ameliorate and lessen for a time

It's good that I sometimes feel soft 

and free and have no throbbing burden 

of an erection to contend with and appease 

by putting my hand down my pants 

and having to masturbate myself like crazy 

every time I awake 

It's good that the images 

of your nipples and curves 

and the living pulses 

of the oyster pink dragon between your legs 

sometimes remain invisible 

to the X-ray vision 

of my lurid and thorny imagination 

It's good that the translucent demeanor 

of your wetness and your heat 

the perfume of your sexuality 

The convolutions and ripples 

of your infinite and erotically attractive mind 

and the magnetic pull of your body

loses the power to allure me 

into wishing unto our fates

the infernal madness of kissing, 

the partial engagement of licking 

and the total theatre of unbridled cavorting, 

wrestling, fingering and tongueing 

and penetrating and biting and rolling 

and mauling and knowing and groaning 

without the mercy of withholding.

It's good that some dawns I awake

Without such thoughts upon me

And that I find you didn't provoke me that night

With naked images 

Or ambiguous messages 

which my hot cock and furious loins 

Like to play with and ponder 

As if there were ever the slightest hope 

That they would one day be called upon

To burst into action

In a sporadic and vociferous intercourse 

Characterized by sweat and rips 

As clothing was torn off and chucked

And the grown ups got ... 

lucky enough

To have their aches and torments 

Completely set to dormant 

It's good that you don't instigate

These waves

Of want with salacious invitations

That you don't automatically catalyse in me

These latent roars of desire

Causing my tame cat state to erupt

Like a bull in a documentary

Bumping into trees

And bellowing in the mist

I don't know what it meant to me

To ease the throbs I'm fighting 

With this little piece of writing 

But I guess that it's all I can handle 

Putting my fingers in the candle

Of temptation and instinct 

and the call and thrall

Of the flesh 

It's good that those thoughts remain distant 

As the chance of our bodies coexisting 

Remain practically non existent

But I cant help my amorous imaginary peeking 

Especially when I'm somewhere 

between waking and sleeping.

Sent from my iPhone

Dear Diary of Martin X 19/08/2016

Nick Cave's album cover reduced to smut

I will never fuck you 

Not in a million years 

Not with a didgeriboo boo baby

Never mind your tears 

I will never Iet you lap-lick 

All the gravy off my supper

I won't let you suck my drumstick

Go to your room without succor
You there! Covering your face with your hair

Yes you! You know who you are!

She's the queen of irritators
Some are born to iritate
Some achieve irritability
And some have irritation thrust upon them

Her profound intuition for driving me

absolutely bonkers

was a marvel to behold.

I'll definitely be coming back

for more of her inane drivel.

Mr C.  (A satisfied customer.)

Don't you dare let me climb inside you 

Don't you come all a tremble with me

I will never let myself ravage you 

In a fit of unrestrained glee.

Dear Diary of Martin x 18/08/2016

The touch paper 

Being touched 

Some spark or friction 

The heat 

Of the now

Converging 

With fate 

red as a cherry

the rose blue fuse erupts

comet of ashes 

Mercurial flame 

A flurry of lashes  

A moment of fame 

The end - abrupt 

Boom bang bosh

The bubble bust

Turned to dust 

The bang became a heartbeat 

The heart became a hammer 

The Phoenix rose in daisy trails 

The word prevails 

A thousand cuts 

They say that nothing's infinite 

That nothing does exist

Or maybe Love is all there is

If Love does not have limits 

How can we come from it

How can we be of it

How can we be in it

If Love and breath exist

ok i know this doesn't make sense - trying to write down a taste of something and hope these notes will add to the soup like nice white pepper one day 

Dear Diary of Martin X 16/08/2016 (part two)

We are gonna have a ball

It's gonna be an art ball 

With poetry and tea and lasers 

My dad will be there 

Singing the dooms of the mighty dead

I will be swinging 

Like a Shakesperean clown

Blown my body out of head

From make up to hand me down 

On the chandeliers of cotton 

Where the lights are made of lead.

There's gonna be magic and fairies 

And teapots and cake

We won't know where where is 

If it's handed to us on a plate 

With jam and biscuits for a feast

And we'll have a 3k rig at least 

Well the vaulted canopy of the church (fretted with golden pleats)

has got the most amazing acoustics in Moscow 

And our guitarist is a bit of a beast 

There's gonna be djs and Jesus 

And martyrs and punks 

And the vicar will join us I'm bound 

We'll go bats in the belfry 

Matins orisons and drums 

St Andrew MCing 

The bright one VJing 

And hot hot hot Sister Rosetta Tharp jamming on the wheels of steel 

She's bound to play an oldie for the mums

So adoramus te deum

Gloria all the way 

Fix this date in the diary my child

The vestry will swing 

The vestels wear bling 

And the brethren dear sister 

Are gonna go wild.