Bye Bye Johnny
his touch
has less hands
than a clock
his kisses
fall off her face
like swatted house flies
all those things
the moon tricked her
into believing--
laughs, if she's honest
lies, if she's sincere
hearts retreat from beating
to Morse code
nerves calm,
got their stories right at last
on a sheet's clammy
indifference
wet spot
is sweat alone
I Have My Own Importance to Attend to
I break the plane of your surface,
as my lips on your lips,
holy upon holy,
moon, light, couch, zipper--
this will have ramifications
like world war three starting.
Look at that guy in the photograph.
Your father is it?
He most certainly would not . . .
He would not try to . . .
He would not say or do anything.
But I'm tired of living like
I'm the only one that matters,
the only one loving
at any given time.
Responsibility . . . how about a rain check?
I should drown myself,
leave it to a morgue attendant
to identify this man--
not your fingers,
not your yearning.
Lots of water in the lungs
and let's let see if I take
all feelings down with me.
Yes, sex is what the stars
would be doing if they weren't stars.
And I do twinkle and shine a lot.
Outside, there's traffic,
people watering their gardens--
bad choices on their part.
They leave it all up to me.
Well, of course, you have a say,
a role, in this.
What I mean is,
who's writing this poem?
me or you?
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.
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