Ageless

I know that age matters not

right now, but then it did.

It mattered when we raced against

the wind. I was just a babe in your arms.

You were a man even as a teenager.

You had this way of bringing me love

on a tray, and spoiling me until

I was full on your love. I had it

all, for a brief time. I showed you

my cuts and bruises

and you kissed them. Your lips

on my shoulders within seconds.

My hands unbuckling your belt

in such a frantic youthful way

in an ageless time

between this world and the next.

Let’s remember where we were

and lament the age of us.

It matters that you see past

the girl. We felt invincible

and will never know that freedom

again, that youthful love we held

onto so naurally.

Book Review of “Only You” by David Wesley Anderson

     Only You is a poetry book that feels as if there is no beginning or end; one poem flows into another. David Wesley Anderson writes without titles or punctuation. He laments and describes a fiery love affair.
The theme conveyed in this book is one of feeling of feeling at peace, spiritually, emotionally and sexually in unison with one’s partner. The poet describes orgasms and sexual pleasure with details and by explicit memory. At times, the poems feel choppy without the punctuation, but the desire and the passion illustrated between the lovers is undeniable.O
It feels as if I you are reading a love affair come alive.
In this passage, we can see how Anderson portrays the need of wanting someone, but also the resistance entailed.
“I know the way

to your door

but you keep

changing the fabric

of the lock”
There are some brilliant lines among these poems, but the fact that the poems have no endings and they continue from one page to another makes it for a harder read due to the fact that you don’t know where to pause or take a break.
There are numerous passages that illustrate how erotic Anderson’s poetry can get as well as evoking sexual prowess.
The middle section of the book is an erotic tale, filled with sex scenes, fantasy and magic connections. It is how lovers explore each other’s bodies in a sexual, longing manner; being a fantasy lover in a primal sexual instinct,
“That pervasive need

to be wanted

beneath you

and that unrelenting

tide rocking me

into an escape

where colours shift

and eyes glide.”
Lust takes over the remaining end of the book, as Anderson depicts two naked bodies glistening with want and desire. He describes a deep, spiritual and sexual connection. The lovers tell each other they will explore their bodies and give pleasure. Red is a constant color that runs as a theme throughout the poetry book, red lips, etc.
“Let us run babe

and trip into the

eyes of our sun

where we mix

and melt in flames

sparkling red we

dare to fall further

into each other now

sometimes i long to

be spread out by you

to be torn inch by red

inch through fingers.”
The poems in Only You are centred in the middle of the page and some of the poems have the illusion of a naked woman’s torso and hips. It is visually beautiful to see how the words transform into a body and pleasant to read in this creative manner of writing.
It feels as if I am reading an epic love poem. The book ends on this sexual high that only lovers feel.
Only You is unique in its layout and reads quickly and easily. If you want to check out David Wesley Anderson’s Social media links and purchase his book please click below.
David (D. Wesley A.) is a self proclaimed micro poet finding rhyme and reason within 140 characters. His themes revolve around love and their impact on the intimacy of both the individual and couple. He has published three chapbooks and two full length books of micro poetry. He is currently working on a third book to be released soon. He lives currently in New York City.
dwesleya.com

https://www.facebook.com/dwesleya/

https://www.instagram.com/dwesleyanderson/
https://www.amazon.ca/Only-You-David-Wesley-Anderson/dp/1541297091/ref=sr_1_1?tag=geolinkerca-20&s=books

Reasons

Some people love you

for all the right reasons

but you still go searching

for the wrong ones. The ones

that keep you up or

make you want to smoke up

all day. I never hide behind

a persona or a brand,

I am what I am

sometimes ditzy

sometimes brilliant

but always me. I woke up

in a Woody Allen movie

you can guess the title

but you know it’s dysfunctional

and petty yet narcissistic. I

liked talking to you

because you never interrupt

and this is such a quality

that I adore. I don’t have

scorn, I just love you

so I put up these walls

to protect myself

from how much I care.

I will never tell you,

of course, or maybe

if I’m drunk and Purple

Rain’s solo is on and you

turn to me and with your

eyes you tell me

how you never meant

to cause me any sorrow.

I know. I am smarter

than you think. I carry

you like e.e cummings poem

nowadays it’s modern:

in my phone, in my pocket,

but in another era

it was in my heart

and you,

you are invisible to everyone

but me. You are like

a magician

popping into my life

like the pills

I swallow.

I loved you and lost

you like

a true poet

and you can’t get

any closer to

art than a few hours

alone in a locked room.

Favim.com-florian-nicolle-art-beautiful-soul-emotion-573684

Metropolis

I mostly watched the singer

shake away his age

as it caught up with him

and nothing seemed to impress us

anymore besides one hundred dollar bills

and vodka shots. The youth left us

with our past. Our ten percent shot

at another night of bringing back the

days. All the drunken sailors

tried to get their hands on us

but we have to try so much more

now and drink so much less.

We’re getting sick of the city

and the dirt and the envy.

We’re getting tired of the puddles

and the hurt and the  five dollar coffee cups.

We’re getting upset with the fake news

the killing sprees, the hiding

of ugly humanity. I swear I want

to leave this place and never

look back. Never think about

what language I should speak

first, second guess someone’s

authenticity. I like the vast sky

the view from my window

on my quiet street, for years

I wanted to run from it

and chase the night. Now

I want to sit, enjoy my moments

and never look back to who

I used to be before I met you.

 

 

In My Own Flood

 

It was a crisp autumn night. We changed

the course of our history. We lit

up the night with the stars in our eyes.

A thousand ships sailed by. Still. We

did not look away. I tried to drink my

cosmo slow. I tried to not peek at your

hands. But nothing I tried, worked.

I’m drowning in my own flood of words.

Can you still see me or have I faded out?

Hope and hockey hold hands in love and I

think about you. All the fucking time.

You did it. You made me want you when I

didn’t even try. You said nothing about me

was common, and other phrases that kept

me awake. Running to the moon, right before

sunrise. Your words are ingrained like

photos in a wallet. A lost love. Art. Habit.

I should insist more but I like to drive

fast and sing along to your favourite song,

wear your favourite perfume.

But the most impressive part of this book

is how it showed me how to find myself in between

the realms you never looked. img_0793

 

 

 

This is the first time I am publishing this poem on my blog. It is from my book of poetry of the same title.  Hope you enjoy it.

Working on a new chapbook, to be published by Mad Wolf Publishing.

 

Sunday Musings

I woke up to write

before the coffee, the sunrise

it was words that fancied my skin

to forget my dream the moment my eyes opened.

What is it that makes you want a woman like me?

Your list is long

and everything you say

makes me reevaluate my life as if it were a spreadsheet.

I know you only want to use your knees to spread my legs

my arms

across yours. It is what I want.  I really do admire

how you are so quick to the point.

You do not miss a song, I know I hate to text

and read way too much. I am quiet and methodic

concentrate on the typewriter as if it loved me back.

How could we be here?

People dying from cancer, heart attacks,

and I’m aching for you. It is not a myth,

or a legend, it is how my heart wants

to be pressed up close next to yours

with no fabric between.

I am not anyone special, trust me.

If you lived with me, you would see

so best to elevate my status by

being silent of all my defaults

eliminate my errors

by not telling you anything

more. I will keep it for my poems

my books, my next life.

This is what writers do,

we beat ourselves up with words.

The difference between us

is distance

yet all the words

you refuse to share with me

I know them already.

 

 

 

 

The ticket

I said,

stop the car, I need to vomit.

What’s wrong?

Must be something I ate.

I ate words.

His words

for breakfast

lumch and a québécois supper.

I told the police officer.

I never drive down this fucking street.

I wanted to be thrown in jail

but she let me go. Who knew

that being a bitch really worked?
I can’t sleep well.

I feel like I can’t write anymore

and I fear my secrets have a way

of becoming my only company.
What do you think Simone would do?

Is everyone knocking on his door?

Why should I care?

The line must be long

intense with chatter.

I struggle with letting go

holding on too tight.

I kept chains and locks

for him

but he cut through them

with penstrokes, cockstrokes

brushstrokes, I made up words

with flair and desire.

The full moon is in my heart

beating inside my chest

where he once rested.
There is someone else for him

so many lovelies

all colors, nationalities,

pageant show beauties

all for him.

She has brand new shoes

and purses to match

his ego.

I stumble around bookshelves

wander through poetry sections

take a look

at legends and death

peeking under glass bottles

from the wrong side.
Miss, be careful out there, it’sslippery. 


I thought it would be different this time.

I thought he could love me

for the right reasons

but a million poems

cannot make up

for all the lies.

I will stomp the grapes

write my name on the bottle

and dedicate

a book to him

so he could throw it out

and never know me again.

Drive carefully.




The Pitch

I want to pitch you some poetry.

Take my batt out and swing it

hard in your direction.

My intention is to love you with it

to make you feel whole. I know

you are broken, it’s such a cliche,

true, you might be rolling your eyes

at me, as I do to you.

It’s fine. I have conversations

with you in my head.

You advise me on what Alan would

say, or what a dead rock star wrote

in his poetry book. You are too smart

for the public, the masses, your lovers.

You use the same lines

over and over

and I see that you are not

capable of loving me

the way I loved you.

I love you so differently.

I love you so perfectly.

I love you so absurdly.

I can love you until I close my eyes.

I bought you a gift

I imagine how you would open it

and look at me with glee.

I cry for you.

I have no illness, no anxiety,

I am pretty normal

except I’m a poet

so that makes me see the invisible.

I can see the lethal toxic world

and I could handle it.

I pitch my life to strangers

and they listen.

The same way you listened

once.

It hurts and makes me sick

to not ever see you

talk to you

but death

is like that

it makes it surreal.

I write in my notebook

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott-Fitzgerald

on the cover. Ironic how that was the book

I read when I met you.

Poets can pitch words

poets can wear mitts

throw them around for fun

for games.

You did it to hurt

and I can never

wonder again

what you’ll wear when I see you

when your face is gone from my world.