Poem of the Week: ‘In Flagrante Delicto’ by Christie-Luke Jones

1st Place
Christie-Luke Jones – In Flagrante Delicto

Distant path, long and dark;
Where oft we staged our carnal play,
And foxes offered warning barks,
Four years and three hours away.

So grip my arms with drunken fervour,
Reject all thoughts of eider down;
For if we sway but slightly further,
On painted slats we might lie down.

And if trembling limbs did here entwine,
Our blanket stretching miles above,
A tryst both fleeting and divine,
Lost in the thrill of alfresco love.

Up for a bonus round? Here are the other poems which Christie-Luke submitted which we couldn’t resist including!

Same Time Tomorrow?

Bloodshot eyes ‘midst zigzag lines,
A balding pate makes for bold acquisitions.
Skim your screen and manuscript, but yearn for boaters and skimming stones.
Tell me where and I’ll skim elsewhere.
Somewhere cheap preferably. No beards, no bikes, no brokers.

Redbrick homesick, a twenty something hamster in a champagne flute.
Looks like fun, right? Maybe just until Q3, then Bali?

Somehow you’re not tired. Well, that’s what you keep talking, nay, bragging about.
Your sickly grey pallor would beg to differ.

Plenty of ladies though, some in your wallet, some courtesy thereof.
Doesn’t matter, right? Great fun.

If it’s all the same to you,
I’ll keep riding this purple patch I’m on for as long as humanly possible.

Still, same time tomorrow?

 

Wake Up

A fleeting tremor, a trifling thing.
And the plates are set in motion once again.

The carnal fire rises up to thaw the sorry tundra,
A glorious vista aflame as of old.

Blood and sin embrace with spasmodic fervour,
As the prison walls are doused in white-hot flame.

Stories of battles fought and won are screened in glorious high-definition,
It appears we never lost one, did we?

Such is the fragile ego of man I suppose,
A sensitive, bi-polar little boy fretting over his love handles.

Each conquest serves only to loosen his grip on himself,
Sure I managed this time, but can I do it again?

A bedpost replete with notches is fit to collapse,
So bear that in mind with this one, don’t show your hand so eagerly.

Why our confidence wanes so dramatically in times of fast is baffling,
For how many times have we felt under strength or out of practice,
And still accomplished our shallow goals? Innumerable. Ad nauseum, even.

But the impossible lure of that disarming, upturned smile, those dark, destructive eyes,
Continues to drive our sense of reason onto Aphrodite’s rocks.
Shipwrecked, but gladly so. Lying ravaged, and smiling, along lust’s littoral curves.

So stoke the fire carefully young man, do not perish in a blaze of fleshy caprice.