Siamese Smile

My current cat likes rough love now and then,

leaping onto the newel-post to bat at me as I pass,

begging me to take his gage and duel

over and under the banister, like cavaliers:

other times he offers his belly,

lures me with submission, his paws

cutely bent but alive with claws that

flash and scratch and draw blood.

Always there is the thrum of purr that says both

“I didn’t mean it!” and “That was fun!”

Just like you when you arch your back and

take me deep, your buttocks

smacking my belly, demanding

more and harder,  and the sudden

agile grace with which you throw

my twice-your-weight and pounce,

growling, clawing, engulfing:

the hum in your blocked throat,

the flash of dark eyes in wild hair,

your mouth alive with teeth and your

Siamese smile.

Funeral Sentences

You stupid bastard!—-is it

ok to say that now? After the

platitudes of your obsequies?

May I rail at you like I did by that

crossroads, ticking you off for being

uncommunicative? Well, you aren’t being

much better now, are you? And

who knew you had  such

bad taste in music? Who knew you

sat in this old church and wept?

Who knew you had so many friends

except those who knew you.

Tumulus

Love is a great tumulus,

at its heart buried the

moment of meeting, the

first fire: perhaps sulphurous;

perhaps a fizzle that needed

breath to make it catch; perhaps now

just charcoal and dust, but

still surrounded by

life’s offerings.

¿Qu’es de ti, desconsolada?

 

Like dribs of rain on a drab day your

worries leaked through the roof making

puddles in the public rooms that I

couldn’t hide or adequately

explain to those astounded by the

unexpected deliquescence of your

seemingly solid persona.

On the Beach

I

 The patterns of the draining sand look

just like the paving of my garden a

few million years ago.

ii

 French mothers no longer wear well

—what happened?—while their

nubile daughters blow about the beach like

fragments of a shattered

warning sign.

III

Brown is the new beige, all those

factors factored out in the

vitaminising Sun.

iV

I am lost on this beach,

Friday’s footprints buried beneath

Saturday’s stampede.

V

Nevertheless, I will always return

like the waves, always the same,

like the waves, always different,

like the waves, always inexplicable.

Artificial Fire
The street is like a stage-set,
waiting for people, cars, a cat even
waiting for someone to shout
“Action!”.

Artificial Fire

The street is like a stage-set,

waiting for people, cars, a cat even

waiting for someone to shout

“Action!”.

Evenings Out

I even out my life in evenings

out in the garden, making the most

of Summer, watching the

colour drain from things into

pools of black which

trickle slowly together to

drown the world in darkness,

like rock-pools on a beach into which

we stare at crabs and

starfish while the sea

cuts us off, and Autumn

swallows Summer.

A Good Question

"Is he in, out or indifferent?”

She meant her boss, of course, but

it made me wonder

which I was. I mean

I want to be in (who doesn’t?) but

how far in is too far?

Do you notice the growing lack of air

and space and light?

Are you aware of drying up and

slowly suffocating?

Out isn’t just not in, oh no:

I could be out of it (have been),

on my way out,

out of the loop, my

tiny mind or

to lunch, and

I’m often on a limb,

standing or rageous, but fear

being cold and

dread being left.

Pursuing all these ins and outs leaves

little room for indifference: I will give it my

full attention when I’m

dead.

Cadaver Party

I like that some of my cells won’t know I’m

dead but party on as though as

host I’d gone to bed and

left them to it while they shout

“Loser!” and turn up the music, break out the

drugs, search my house for something

serious to drink and it will be

several cold dawns before they feel the

lack of food and warmth and

realise that the

doors are locked.

Elsewhere other guests ignore the noise

decide to bide their time and

sleep and dream of all that

nutritious gloop I will provide while

in the attic one tiny bit of

grit imagines deep time and the

Sun’s last despairing belch

spraying them all starward

whizzing past each other yelling “Hey!

Great party!

When’s the next?”

What happened to all the posts??? So enjoyed them

They all seem to be there still? And I am glad you enjoyed them :) Do you want more? ;) x