British Summer Time

Night’s new roster has been agreed and

implemented tonight, though I note

she has yet to respond to the

round-robin email.

 

Her duties have not changed, so we

anticipate no need for any

upsurge in imposts, overall hours

remaining roughly the same.

 

P.R. and H.R. should be aware that

scare-stories are circulating of Night being

under-staffed and over-stretched:

firm denial is the line to take.

 

Point out that, although it is true her

watch correlates with

low patient outcomes,

Night is not a nurse, and that the

 

demands from the young, ABC1’s and

even poets for Night’s services has

been in steep decline,

year-on-year, for some time.

 

And can whoever sees her next please

remind her that we in this service see

Night as merely an extension of day

but with less light.

The White Ship

The boy strode down that
stolid hill in that
ghost town towards the 
white ship, expecting to sail
fully-armed, knowing the
sugar-sandwiches in his satchel, the
book or two wouldn’t 
add much to its arsenal, but
trusting to his wit and spirit to
pay for his passage.

The White Ship

The boy strode down that

stolid hill in that

ghost town towards the

white ship, expecting to sail

fully-armed, knowing the

sugar-sandwiches in his satchel, the

book or two wouldn’t

add much to its arsenal, but

trusting to his wit and spirit to

pay for his passage.

Five-Finger Exercise

Your fingers are five ghosts

playing my spine like a piano

each finger a sense

each sense afire as they

coalesce at my nape to

pull my mouth to yours.

Beachhead
A zigzag of tidewrack,
fragile fossil of the sea’s last
demented assault.

Beachhead

A zigzag of tidewrack,

fragile fossil of the sea’s last

demented assault.

Sweet and Sour
Teach me all your sweet and
sour words of love, those
tongue-twisting lyrics of lust which you
mouth slowly, carefully, as if my
glottis were a three-year-old;
giggle uncontrollably when I
mispronounce; pounce, your
organ-stop nipples gouging my chest as you
attack my ear to
whisper hotly all that those
sinuous syllables symbolise.
Coccyx II

I’ll bet you are kneading your

tiny breasts, teasing, twisting your

taut nipples as your weight

settles on my shoulders, your

wet core seeking the

dry ground of my vertebrae, slowly

slithering down my spine until the

nub of your clit rubs the

stub of my tail.

Bed Head

A poem inspired by this post by the adorable Lady Pandorah

 

http://ladypandorah.com/2013/11/10/good-morning-sunshine/

 

 

To the world you are immaculate:

clothes chic, unique; jewellery

just so, no more; make-up

merely defining what is

already there; and that

wonderful hair so

carefully coiffed—the

touchstone of your public self.

 

So I am blessed to see that hair so

beautifully dishevelled as your

flushed face emerges from the

rucked sheets, a sly smile on your

sweaty face, a faint

trickle of my pleasure

serving as lipstick.

Just Wipe the Mirror

The bathroom fills with steam

as your hands absently soap your body,

taking inventory : fat ass, flabby belly,

no tits, stubble.

 

But what if I were there with you,

pressing the evidence of my ardour into

your welcoming ass, caressing your

tightening belly, your incipient tits,

 

unaware of stubble in my urgent

lift of you out of the shower,

feet splayed on wet floor as I

bend you forward to penetrate,

 

urging you to see how beautiful you are by

just wiping the mirror.

Exhaust Fumes

She saw her life ebbing away—

with what? A sigh, a shrug, a

‘well that didn’t work did it?”–when

after the hard flush of change

she found there was still

gas in the tank, oil oozing,

hot stares in shop and street like

jump-leads firing her battery, the

engine idling, waiting for her

foot on the pedal to roar away from

husband, children, problems,

seeing them in her rear-view mirror as

shadows on the living room curtains

hazed with her exhaust fumes.

The Magic Hour is when
film-makers get impatient,
photographers fumble with their F-stops,
lovers stop to kiss, people
close their curtains, oblivious, and 
old poets slip out to gawp at those
slippery seconds when day is
confused with night.

 

The Magic Hour is when

film-makers get impatient,

photographers fumble with their F-stops,

lovers stop to kiss, people

close their curtains, oblivious, and

old poets slip out to gawp at those

slippery seconds when day is

confused with night.