Thursday, 26 November 2015

Two Eves






There were two Eves in that
steamy bathroom: the one he
knew well, smiling bashfully
as though her nudity was news,
not endlessly retweeted in his head;
the other, behind the
frosted glass, danced like
Salome under seven veils of spray,
seductive, erotic, intent on
having his head
explode.


 
(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)

Wednesday, 21 October 2015

Mostly Wet


Was she a narcissist, she wondered as she
pressed “Send” : desperate perhaps?
A ‘pleaser’? Above her head a photo of her
newly depilated vagina was being
pestled into a paste of ones and zeroes,
thrown bodily into the sky,
bounced off some space-soiled satellite,
sieved, the pixels repurposed as her
pudenda on the laptop screen of a
man she’d never met, might
never meet, and while she felt
ashamed, like the world that image
circumnavigated, she found herself
mostly wet.

Saturday, 26 September 2015

Restraint








She showed restraint in her
choice of birthday gifts, knew
he would show restraint, using
her proffered body,
naked but for the
leather straps about her
wrists and ankles, the
thick leather collar about her
graceful, fragile neck.


 
(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)

Monday, 17 August 2015

Night-Scented


She’s gone when I awake leaving
her perfume on my pillow, the
impress of her lips on mine, the
tang of her on my taste-buds and,
neatly tied about each wrist, her
night-scented stockings.

Saturday, 18 July 2015

Rasp


I miss
the kiss
the rasp of
dry lips
the shiver of
fingers in hair
holding that
kiss tight.

Monday, 22 June 2015

Naiad to Dryad




Water suited her,
cleaved for her,
ran off her as,
barefoot on oakleaves, the
air transmuted her from
Naiad to Dryad.





 
(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, 13 June 2015

Lightning


Lightning lit your mouth
slowly working me, flashes
silhouetting the Mendips, your
lips, tongue, hands, eyes
coaxing my deluge just as the
rain battered Bristol and
all its surroundings.

Sunday, 3 May 2015

Hope Street


The back of a taxi
late at night:
zig-zag of street-lights
strobe the stutter of
shy fingers seeking a
hand to hold them.

Sunday, 29 March 2015

Choice


She chose to be naked:
she chose the implements;
she chose to bend over;
chose to be bound, offering her
wrists behind her back; she
chose to accept the breath-bit
beating of her bottom and his
rough intrusion into her
ready sex, as she chose to
open her mouth to
accede to his seed because it was
her choice, not his.

Saturday, 21 March 2015

Why You Shouldn't Marry Your Muse








“You know Renoir
painted with his prick?”
My loaded brush dripped as my
startled eye jerked from canvas
up past her artfully cocked hip
to her loaded eyes, seeing
Impatience on a Monument,
demanding I put my
prick to its proper purpose.


 
(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, 12 February 2015

.......After








The door clicked quietly closed,
footsteps diminuendo, the vague
tweak of a fob, car coughing,
descending into silence.

They had feared the easy slide of
marital to martial, the
sour smell of jealousy, cock-feathers
flying in her hen-house.

Lying there, smeared, exhausted,
she sought and caught his hand,
his kiss, his sweaty embrace and
wanted more instead.


 
(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)

Sunday, 8 February 2015

Before......









I sensed your tension,
felt it through every tendon from your
arched feet to your
knitted fingers to your
nipples, pinked, erect on
goosebumped breasts, you
startling each time a
car came up that hill,
wondering which one would
stop and disgorge the man who might
forever mar their marriage.


(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, 31 January 2015

The Table in the Corner






                           

      The Maitre D’ always kept that
      table by the window, screened by greenery,
      free each Friday for them to
      kick back after their long week apart,
      marooned in the world of work, their mutual
      love and lust kept bubbling with
      texts, selfies, words whispered,
      promises of acts performed once their
      other appetites were sated, their
      waiter often aroused by the bouquet of
      panties passed from pussy to pocket, a
      glimpse of nipple, the business of
      hands and feet in their
      not-so-subtle struggle to
      keep the table firmly between them.


(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am indebted and whom you should visit)

Friday, 2 January 2015

Hook-Up

She thought there was no access to
her heart through any of her
external orifices:
he thought he preferred  bare
ear-lobes, nipples, labia, to a
mouthful of metal;
she thought middle-aged men eyed her
askance, only to
ogle her arse as she walked on;
he thought tattoos a turn-off, the
smell of future regret trailing in the
dirt like a fake fur-coat;
she thought her soul was a stone, each
rough fuck a chip destined one day to
leave her polished smooth;
he thought his life was over when his
wife left him, finally
dissillusioned with dust;
she thought a bar tempting;
he thought it a place of despair.

The bar-tender thought he’d seen
odder couples, stranger pairings, even
ordinary folk who came in and found
how wrong they could be.