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)

Sunday 22 May 2016

The Roots of Rough




Sometimes she liked it rough though
never exactly knew why his
demanding hand in her hair, sometimes
choking her with his length, sometimes
using it as reins to
slap his thighs against her
arched haunches before
painting her face with his
effusions, made her so very
wet and she wondered whether
any of her underlings at work
would ever understand.
 



(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 7 May 2016

A New Touch







Shackled by her shirt she
knelt waiting, her eyes
tight shut to sharpen her
sense of someone else
entering her space, a
different footfall, a new
breath, the prickle of a
strange scent, a sense of
the tension that awaits a
new touch.


 
(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 27 April 2016

Dress








That gorgeous dress? The one you
fell in love with through the
closed shop window, couldn’t get
back to for days, amazed it was
still there and it fitted you like a
long, slinky glove but cost
half a month’s salary and a
bad case of conscience? Well it’s
even more gorgeous as it
pools around your high heels,
kicked away into some corner,
forgotten for the next few
unforgettable hours.


 
(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 25 April 2016

Pornflakes and Coffee








When they awoke he had gone quietly and his
wife’s shy smile answered his first kiss—
“Are we ok?”  “More than ok, ok?”
She snorted, sought his morning wood—
“Can this wait? You boys sure
stretched me last night and….”
rubbing her face “…you both left a
wonderful mess, but now I need a
shower, and coffee please mister!”

He watched her naked beauty
wobble uncertainly to the bathroom,
lay awhile amidst the
still-strong smells, images of the
night as tight a ring about his heart as
that ring he’d put on his wife’s finger and
just as snug, water running, her
happily humming, him brushing
pornflakes from the bed and making coffee.


 
(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 April 2016

The Bet








The bet was no more than
five minutes before someone
offered to buy her a drink, her
husband watching
his watch.

The bet was no more than
nominal to her after
two births and feeling
dowdy despite the new
mani-pedi.

The bet was no more than
four minutes old when a
man offered and she
shrugged, said yes, accepted
she’d lost.

The bet was no more than
a regret as she laughed and
accepted a second drink, wondering
when her husband would
intervene.

The bet was no more than
a memory when she felt his
erection against her thigh as he
leant in to whisper in
her ear.

The bet was no more than
a vague recollection as she
felt his hands on her forgotten body,
caught across the bar her husband’s
hot eyes.

The bet was no more,
mislaid as she
pulled his lips to hers,
took his hand and
stood up.

 
(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 13 March 2016

Neighbours








Those kids will break that trampoline
or an arm; Margot’s roses are coming
along strong; the Fernandez are
rowing again—about what?; and Bob’s vintage
Mustang has had so many spare parts it’s
barely old but still he tinkers as she
kneels here naked in the window, aware
anyone could see her if they weren’t so
preoccupied, just looked up, as hands
tilt her hips just so and a
blunt tool expels the air from her lungs
in a fine mist on the windowpane
obscuring her from
prying eyes.

 
(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 22 February 2016

Jewels



It was his to give, but
hers to receive as she wished:
whether her heels spurred him to
pulse his risk against her
not-quite-redundant cervix; or
spurt with a strangled cry,
each drop a new
vertebra up her spine; or as now to
adorn her torso with
jewels finer than anything he could
possibly afford to buy.

 
(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 17 January 2016

Bare Sark




When the Vikings came, the
most feared were the
naked ones, the
baresarkers, so
enamoured of battle they
threw themselves on the foe,
fearlessly, just as you
threw yourself on me,
eyes aglint,
battle-ready,
bare sark.


 
(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 1 January 2016

Laugh Lines

Despite being naked, she was sweating
in that overheated apartment where she could
blossom exotically, shucking the
chrysalis of motherhood, those
worries about the pooch of her stomach, the
slow droop of her breasts, the
less than faint lines begun when
she used to laugh.

Slippery with the sweat and oil, she
squirmed from under him, made him
chase her, wanting to be caught and
pinned in his cabinet, not bothered being a
specimen, but just happy to be
laughing again.