hunger
It strikes at the oddest of times: in bed,
while making love, at the best part
of a major blockbuster you're watching
with the girl you want to impress.
Or it could be her scent that drives
you to such distraction, the gnawing
at gut-level, the body's way of blinking
I-want-I-want in a shower, on the train,
in the clutches of a traffic jam. A word,
the faintest wisp of hope which is another
kind of hunger, the slightest brush
of a molecule is enough to set you off
in search of sustenance, enlightenment,
actualisation, sex. All the big names
we use to speak our need. Call it the pleasure
principle, the way of all flesh, a seed's
restive groping for sunlight, a city's hunger
to spill. Yours could be fame, comfort,
a cold beer, and mine the same
blind thirst for terminal fullness,
the flowering of fruit after a season
of placid dying. Whatever we do
it's never enough, thank goodness.
I'd still like to breathe, ceaseless
marvel of each gulp of air, fight
the good fight of every step
on hard ground towards my beloved
bakery, their scrumptious buns shaped
like fine breasts and topped with cherries,
the relish of each bite and afterwards
running home past the downpour's ache,
the lovely warmth sinking deliciously
into my soaked and wrinkled digits.
What else do we want from life
but space in which such rain can fall,
our hollow days we fill and fill
before the last sweet surfeit buries us
26 November 2001 23:45 hours
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