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
things i learnt playing civilisation 3 { } anger