Saturday, 19 November 2016

Pulled







Though she had her own strength,
tensile, febrile, demanding,
nevertheless she was
pulled to him,
pliant, willing.


 
(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Tuesday, 18 October 2016

Two Women


They had met for sex, in a
complicated choreography that let
two wives explore their mutual
curiosity before surprising one
very lucky husband.

They chose somewhere discreet
with a large bathroom where they could
pamper and primp and
drink wine and just maybe
chicken out.

But like turned to lust via the
kisses they remembered practising in
pink bedrooms and smelly cars, the
touches wonderfully strange and
wholly different.

After, they had to bathe,
enjoying their womanliness,
laughing over lingerie,
primped and pampered and
perhaps ready.

A ting-ting told them their
beau was imminent and they
planned arousing poses, one
sat astride the other
erotically entwined.

But breast to breast,
heart to heart, both
beating madly, they
simply embraced and
held each other tight.


 
(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Thursday, 6 October 2016

Anticipation


Anticipation made her antsy all day, kept
drawing her back to the window from which
she would see whether her husband was
alone or had company.

She caught herself playing with her hair, something
her mother had warned her against—“It’s a
signal, dear, that you’re interested”—but she
was interested, was curious, was scared.

She knew she should get dressed though she
often greeted her husband naked, but with
someone else it would give the
wrong impression, wouldn’t it?

If she saw him/them arrive there
wouldn’t be time to dress, but
watching was so hypnotic and
waiting was such a powerful aphrodisiac.


 
(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)


Saturday, 20 August 2016

Domestic Olympiad


After the five-ring circus of their sex
she draped herself in
no-one’s flag, had
no medals around her neck, heard
no applause or cheers from
non-existent spectators, was not
judged or awarded points or
penalised for some
minor infringement, but still
sweated, dripped, struggled to
catch her breath, needed badly to
rehydrate, looked forward to a
possible repechage.

 
(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Thursday, 4 August 2016

The Three Graces


I never know which of your
three selves will grace me tonight: your
reflection, all spine, demanding
touch or tongue; or your shadow
so adept at slipping away
giggling at how inept I am at
catching; or your corporeal self
just waiting to be caught.

 
(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Friday, 15 July 2016

Held Tight

She was held tight,
held tight to the sheet
held tight to the bed
held tight to the floor
held tight in the house
held tight in the country
held tight in a world that
let her be held tight in
such a photo, this
expression of herself, this
sense of a freedom she
held tight to and
wouldn’t let go.



(I began this poem on the 14th.July 2016 as an erotic poem, left it unfinished then woke to the news of the events in Nice which inspired everything after line 5: in my own way, I think of it still as an erotic poem because the erotic impulse is even more important in the face of the barbaric and censorious)

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Friday, 8 July 2016

Bumps and Splendours


The heavy boardroom table thrums,
your icon flashing within the
cup of my palm, urgent.

A glance assures all around are
comatose as the CEO drones,
oblivious to your nudity.

Thrum: “Bored darling? Me too.
Thinking of Room Service and
what he would find.”

Thrum: “There’s a fateful knocking.
Am I too bare to dare to
answer such a summons?”

Thrum: “And I have no money!
With what can I tip him for
champagne with no cash?”

Thrum: “Seriously vexed! He was like
80 and wretched and kept his
eyes on the carpet!”

Thrum: Photo of a humdrum
hotel carpet “Seriously, do I have to
go down to the hotel bar….

Thrum: “…and thrust my
tits at some lonely out-of-town
salesman to get some…

Thrum: “…attention, or are you going to
get up here pronto and remind me
how you love my….

Thrum: “…lumps and bumps and
splendours?”


 
(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)