Why Ryan Left

Unusually for this blog and, in general, quite atypically of the writing available in abundance elsewhere here, the following poem is written only for adult readers due to content of a sexually explicit nature which may offend, and readers are advised to use their descretion.

Why Ryan Left

Ryan decorated with
an unmoving ornament
spelling “L.O. V. E.”
and a tin sign above,
to “Keep Calm and Carry On”.

Ryan left
so that his holiday memory,
somewhere on the map,
would still be hanging up.

Between addictions
and cycling.
Ian’s bike chain broke.

Michael toasted a de-consecrated flame.
When his hands met underwater,
he found chance to light a candle,
wash his hands.

He knew it was too dim to be right,
but you could have
traced his line of sight
from breasts and behinds,
colour-changing
legs to tangled gold fish,
or islands of vomit
clanging down a metal sink-hole.

It was a foyer made of too much marble,
to greet weak money,
but when empty,
with closed eyes,
you couldn’t take in any more.
And branded on your inside lid,
a poorly painted
then split and carved,
piggy bank.

Otto couldn’t wait to leave his post as watchman,
the shadows
weren’t for his wall.
Something new, anyway, would nest on
that swivel chair,
an owl made to record all movements around the building’s
tall investments.

Poor Otto’s son.
He was stacked up with comix
crumpled in his grip.

Alison’s smile
in his pencil,

’til inopportune come leapt its surprise
from milky fingers
and became a lily bunch.

Staying was for Alison a sense of leaving,
and things could be different,
things were simple, after all.
And that included Otto’s son,
she recalled.

She shared this sentiment,
and friends clicked “like” –
a slogan to go headlong into friendly lives,
against the
sandwich-filling breath of her fears
for herself,
otherwise.

How should we meet Ryan but
hacking at a tree
before a helpless
security guard
from the tall building opposite
had strings of questions
to get through,
shouting anything above traffic.

On her profile it said
Alison could only believe in living
for the moment.

She could now tune out the boy
holed up afraid
who was easier to meet sleeping,
cupped balls,
rigid shorts,
a long time ago;
which was key to understanding
the dim view of Michael,
and Michael’s leaving of his puke
skirted around tile,
was why no one could settle
in the vague blue city of Ian
polluting his pedalling steps
it’s sad to say,
on his bicycle.

Ryan, at least, found a
green forest,
warm as a fire,
torn everything,
a searched party.

At last, sense was nurtured there.

You must be looking for the same.

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