Because it will not be

Does the dog still bark when after midnight the heat forces you to fling your window open? I miss your laid back voice in the humid night.
How does the third layer of blue dry on the oil you once painted for me? I don’t have unhappy memories, just naïve daydreams that we’ll never share.
We’re both jaded from too many sunsets of love sinking down behind picturesque silhouettes. Still I feel I should have yelled at you just once
to procrastinate my lingering heart attack, you’d have been too distracted anyway . So, come out my heart, let’s  stroll along the lonely shore and breathe some sexless air
watch another bloody sunset slip down the horizon because this time it isn’t meant for us.

Poetry by the author writing as Gurkski 

“morphine” by Gurkski

You, my very soul,  cry  rivers, cry me  inane  monsoons.

Hear me not listening for I have given up.

I have given up on  this dream we once were.

My heart hungers  for the morphine of your touch.

I am thirsty again for lovers’ quarrels.

Now that you are gone I want you so much. 

In my hearts winter melancholy swings to the rhythm of

your dreams waltzing our dark desires through the night.

Posh – by Gurkski

Pick up the pieces

House of Heart

Drab morning, no aperitifs.
Someone left a suitcase monster filled with Marihuanilla.
You are still sleeping, opened  to my peeping eye,
your auburn hair anarchistically fanned out on the pillow.
I put on Monk and  return to serious business,
rolling overweight Mexican calumets and
while I meditate on the perfect shape of your breasts
I inhale to wed my self to life again.
Three joints later all has become lovelier and
I bow down to make lips meet.  “Coffee, my sweet?”.
You bite my ear,  ” frappé!”
I smile, ” oh, Greek”.

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