Sake of the tock 

The rocking of tocking

the planetary times we

shared – and could share,

if only we chose 

to be aware of the value of

love multiplied and 

accelerated by the eco-

[g]nomics of elfdom (and

how I did love your sprite!) –

leads me

to take stock of the wear-

house I’ve lived: the baggage 

carried finally so lightly


as the suitcases of

remembrance only let me




rise the love and the

hugs and the fabulous 

moments of abandon and

truth; and the touch of your 

skin was pure

divinity: a trinity unknown 

yet rapidly carnal: the flesh


against flesh 



no longer repetition but love

of another kind where return

did become a treasurable 

tribute of grandly,

almost sacred nature.

And the altars were both of

us, and the religion was

equality, burnished and

burnishing like book on coral

sea; and everything we did 

just fitted like a hand tucked

coolly inside an arm in 

no longer satiable 

desires; and if one thing you

taught me must be registered 

here, like marriage of 

wondrous concept and idea,

then it’s love of another

means living heaven on this

rock as it tocks its way

blindfolded but not


inside the being of certain

wisdom, and the seeing of

our scatty shirt-sleeved share


For I do recall 

the clothes I unpicked

from your gorgeous tapestry: I do

recall the body that lay so

kindly, so adventurously, so

invitingly underneath: that

sharedom you wove with the tips

of your fingers and the

tongue you rasped and nibbled

and licked, which seduced me

with words that tripped 

like holiday of togethertimes 

and hightimes 

and lifetimes:

and that’s what you’ve 

been: the very best of

lifetimes a man did ever see: the

sharedom unbound, almost

never found: and then in these 

words I write you, suddenly rewound,

fast-forwarded and 



an abacus of love;

an alphabet of


My love finally unabashed

and purely felt:

and sent

and gone

and been

and done,

and maybe now, dear,

even where over …

… maybe now, dear,

if you so wish,

maybe now, dear,

something else …

… something new: not an

ensnared love in aspic at all

but a future of grace,

laced with goodtimes and


yet other people too.

A meeting of minds, yet

no longer of

skin: a growing-up not


acceptance not


And that’s how I finally see 

the woman of

my life: no one to get over;

someone to treasure; not to be

compared to or contrasted with 

in presence of any 

other; never to be replaced and

never to be ignored …

… and in awe of the things we created

then together 

I shall always remain and sustain this forever.

So no moving on.

No slate wiping clean.

No tears shedding abruptly.

But love unconditionally, for the

rest of this rock’s tock.

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