QUEER MESSIAH EXPLICIT AND CONTENTIOUS POETRY AND SPOKEN WORD

A DEVILISH SEXTET AT PLAY

1

I felt so accosted

By the feel of her stocking tops

The cunt heat kissing my dick fist

That I withdrew

Coitus-interruptus [Ever the good Catholic prick]

To the DFS sofa where I whacked one off, not hard, to

HD LCD inner visions of

Rooney fellating Lampard- like you do.

She gobs off ‘Is it coz I’m on the blob?’

I replied ‘Aye’ reaching for the remote and a TV league match

That reliably delivers more shivers than her snatch

Any day of the week.

COME ON ENGLAND.

2

Not yet. Not yet.

Excitement heightening- wet

Mucous and musculature igniting.

Thrust and bust a gut

Yes. Jets. Harrier jump jets jetting through the sound barrier

Barking boom zoom lollies. Jolly wallies. Fuck me.

Arcs of inner larking out and spilling gently

On his honey skin tone like off-white moisturiser.

The guest/sex towel handy on the bedside cabinet

Letting us howl with laughter in the stallion aftermath.

It’s loft tumbledried-n-downy smelling of horse-chestnut.

3

How plain they always looked- bookish. Norma normal

And no nonsense Spencer- expert at mowing, clipping,

Growing dahlias for showing and shipping to florists he

Visited in a plain van always meticulously spic and span.

Who’d know they were going or knock on their door to

Explore- intrude upon a very unsettling snapped habit

If that was what it was. They’d gone lastminute.com before.

He emptied the freezer squeezed contents into a trunk sized

Wheelie case and went. Lives exorcised. Eyes livid with intent.

The soft forest floor like a wren’s nest to his naked feet, he

Laboured at his art installation- emotions swinging on a gothic pendulum

From frustration to elation. Her despoiled bits his oil paint

His lingam his brush. No rush. The grove sacred prior to Christendom-

Nudity and naked truth not yet expired.

Mankind still a treasure trove of the immeasurable unexplained.

To defecate upon her face was post-post-modernist genius

To kiss those chill but warm shit tainted lips such devilish bliss.

Sat in the frosty spread of her exposed uterus

He had the wit to finally switch off his brain.

Birdsong. Gunshot. Gone.

Gone beyond the puzzle left for those of us who make a fuss

About the obsequious and the obvious. [CLUE: They called it love.]

Chris Madoch © 2010

Image by CM for eye2eyedesigns international

Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

QUEER STAND-UP

Fantasy sprays, ladies and gentlemen

they’re a new hit with deluded consumerism-

the leader in this field being

NICEMIST.

NICEMIST.

[It comes in pocket and household sizes]

see or hear anything nasty that may spoil your day-

no problem,

just blast it away with three short bursts of

NICEMIST.

Works well on fannies

that haven’t kissed a soapy sponge for three days.

Fish.

I’ve got a sudden unwanted whiff of it

definitely fish.

A lesbian activist

wrote and told me, scolding me in fact,

saying it was an urban myth

that twats smelled of rotting sprats.

I told her

girl, I was married for 13yrs-

have survived many a muff dive

and what I do know is that

minges never taste of cock

which I very much prefer

to feed on these days.

I think

we should split the difference

and agree on prawns-

a delicate pink stink,

shelled prawns of course.

But guys

be wary

at the first hint of a crunch

get the hell out of there

it’s probably crabs.

Oooh itchy.

Too scary.

 

I'm putting the shit wayward gay bits of myself

back in the closet.

The camp nick-knacks.

Naff weren’t they.

At last.

And not before time.

Hoo-fucking-ray!

Lock the blasted closet door-

throw the stinky pinky key away.

Ching.

Oh I hated it me- everything.

Had to grow a full beard-

oh yes,

I do have the testosterone;

Abundant pubic hair around a pork pie hole.

I’m a sucker for a pork-sword me.

 

Well- all that prat twat tat,

man-bags,

make-up for men,

what the fuck were they but a chiffon veil.

They were conveniently fey- that’s what,

a vile disguise for those pretend guys

benders in Eastenders in deep denial.

It’s true,

they were ruched ruses,

nets in swanky swathes,

conspired for by relentless liars.

The public loved it-

YOU did, that’s the point; all the wanky shit

it’s your fault you twats.

You and the greedy het capitalists

eager to get their sweaty mits

on the pink euro, pound, dollar or yen.

They don’t miss a trick do they-

do what the fuck you like, that’s what they say,

so long as there’s a fat profit in it.

 

Well, I don’t lie.

I don’t.

I don’t lie.

And I'm not just half bent, not at all.

I’m totally 100% bent.

AND I’m utterly honest

AND, what’s more,

 that makes me a proper QUEER,

a right proper QUEER

AND I am fearlessly proud of it.

Never do anything by halves me

BUT I have to say-

I’ve never been fisted.

No.

Never.

Never have been fisted.

Not even half-way fisted.

Not me.

Fisting’s just not my thing.

Fisting’s a thing that makes me wince.

 

Think.

I’ve got big hands-

these fists, look,

 they give me terrible nightmares.

Fuck me!

I’m a fat bugger.

Imagine me as a sex lollypop-

it’s not a picture for the front room wall.

 

I was once told- this is true,

by a self-obsessed literary editor

from the precious east coast of America

that every time I used the word

QUEER

I was deeply insulting

all the gay men in The United States-

all of them

and there really are quite a lot of them:

what a pussy footing prat.

Is this academic in the real world-

his compatriots under the rainbow flag

are routinely shoving shit uphill,

fudge packing,

stool fooling.

Does he not know this?

Does he really think

that they really give a fuck

what anyone from the UK calls ‘em?

Oh get a life,

or at least

organise getting a dick

shoved right up your tight arse.

Free up your blocked Kundalini.

I just can’t be fucking arsed arguing with him.

The maggot brained PC shit.

The New World faggot.

Get real.

Call yourself a man?

 

 

 

I do.

Yes.

I do actually.

I do actually call myself a man.

I’m a proper man with all me bits.

No tits.

Hairy chest.

Hairy nose.

Oh yes.

And sex with proper hirsute men

gives me enormous pleasure-

a lot of pleasure if I get lucky that is.

Last week one of my friends struck very lucky

ooh fuck me,

bloody enormous he said it was-

there was enough for him apparently,

enough for him and his boyfriend

and ALL the neighbours.

 

We’re ALL subliminal sizeists.

We are.

At least I admit it. I'm proud of it. All you hissy fit shits of any gender- fucking get over it.I fucking admit it.

And another inch wouldn’t go amiss.

 

Look at you

handling a sudden involuntary

spasm of your anal sphincter.

She is.

I know the signs.

All of you hissy fit hypocrites

sit tight

and get over it.

 

Right.

s pleasure. I admit it. I'm proud of it. All you hissy fit shits of any gender- fucking get over it.Sexually repressed queers

[yeah, you know who I mean,

and there are millions of them]

they reduce me to fucking tears-

how anal,

inhibited and up their own arses are they,

all the fucking time

wearing pure as the driven snow monogamy

as a shroud to their dead inclinations.

OH PLEASE

what a wanking bind of mocking heterosexuality

you're fucking stuck in.

Guys, guys,

wise up,

this is what you do-

this is what you do if you’ve got any balls

and any native sense-

'make love' beautifully to your chosen one,

go on

BUT

have SEX consensually with others.

NEXT!

Now you’re sorted.

No need to lie no more-

or doesn’t sex with strangers

in a grubby little shrubbery off the A3 count?

No it’s not dogging you clever little shit

it’s chocolate logging

and you fucking love it-

Vanilla and sea salt..scrummy.

u're sorted. No need to lie no more..or doesn't 'sex with strangers

Have you been psychologically freaked

by porn,

some of those men do have massive weapons

OMG,

born to it they are,

whopper cocks,

but don't fret pet,

it's never been easier to get a penis extension.

The Plastic Surgery clinics

have a massive recession sale on.

They suck the excess fat from your buttocks

and you can work out the rest for yourself.

That's the wife's xmas prezzie sorted then.

Listen,

no-one ever talks about vagina size do they-

though, as I recall,

in the ancient Kama Sutra

a pairing of a large dick and small fanny

is considered not ideal and visa versa.

I do get the drift.

It does make sense.

If I had a small driveway-

frilly gates and clipped privet,

I’d hate to have a juggernaut

try and park in it uninvited.

Now just think,

is there such a thing as vag envy?

I don’t think so.

Cunts are an inside job.

In my experience

they’re generally not visible

without a staple through the middle of them.

Mmm.

BUT seriously,

if I was having a run in with a total cunt

I would prefer

that they were smaller rather than larger.

My friend and

FB mate Dave

sent me this-

priceless-

‘The importance of the size of the organ

is proportional,

of course,

to the dimensions of the cathedral

in which it is being played’-

thank you Dave,

it makes you sound like a pissed atheist.

On occasions

that’s exactly what he is God bless him.

The Japanese who’ve never suffered cock envy,

and consequently

seem to deify anything ridiculously small,

invented minute digital keyboards

with pretentions to be as mighty as Wurlitzer organs.

Almost limitless erectile potential there-

from inside jacket pocket size

to something capable of filling the Albert Hall.

Imagine the spunk you’d get from that-

it’d drown all those pretentious twats

standing in the pit

at the last night of the proms

singing Land Of Hope And Glory.

Talking of pretentious twats,

I was called an arrogant cunt the other day.

It got me thinking-

great,

even at aged sixty

I can still get some young pup of a poet

to insult me royally

and it got me imagining exactly

what an arrogant cunt might look like-

 it’s obviously on show in some way,

 has had a make-over,

 lipstick,

 lip-gloss,

 the bloody lot.

 It’s maybe pouting with attitude

from a cutaway patch in tight leather trousers,

it’s maybe singing like Cheryl Cole.

Fuck!

Now I am insulted.

But thank you Mr Muirhead

coz your scrotal sac attack on me

proved highly entertaining.

I have to say

there've been exhortations for me to be NICE.

Fine and dandy.

BUT

what is nice-

coating shit in sugar candy?

Giving each and every one of you

rose tinted contact lenses on the fucking state?

Me personally

persuading the fascist Pope

to publish a Papal Bull

stating it is not a sin to masturbate?

Oh please God, if indeed you do exist,

let the twice risen Christ be an activist gay socialist.

Bring it on.

The Christians will crucify him for it.

What a hoot!!

How dare he be anything other than NICE

To rant or not to rant that is the question.

Now.

I am not a natural born ranter

but this twisted world

inhabited by bullshitters has shaped me into one.

Why let the people who sweetly

seep crap into the universe

go unchallenged.

I am not a bleating sheep.

I rambustiously challenge it.

AND if that is perceived

by the large flocks of timid fbookers

as ranting then so be it.

The spineless swines are dead from the neck up

and have no intimation of it.

I mean, for fuck’s sake,

what do you do when everything's poo-

submit to the shit and frantically vomit

'FUCK IT!'

‘FUCK IT!’

I'm roaring like a mouse here

at an elephant's paw that's about to splat me flat-

Nelly,

you smelly sizeist cunt,

am I invisible?

Society's licking celebrity arse in the belief,

one supposes,

that their talentless jacksies smell of roses.

At last we have it-

a farce is a farce is a farce.

Do us all a favour-

pull your head out of your daft arses.

BBBBBed said Fred

leading his well hung lover Ned

to the promised land of a queen size bed

and a cabinet of sex toys.

Oh the under sung joy of Durex tingle lube

and playing flesh torpedoes

first inside then out of D&G Speedos,

nude, rude.

 Best sex yet.

Unrepressed

 Cum coloured velvet guest towels.

How thoughtful is that.

Chris Madoch © November 2009

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Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

A PROPER PICTURE POSTCARD

They’ve launched the old marquee
On Tisborough Green.
This Saturday we’ll discover,
Besides the massed kids,
Corduroys and pleats,
The biggest edible onions ever seen
Along with miniature floral arrangements
In heirloom thimbles,
Hallmarked;
All of it come round again,
The drinks- fruit Pimms and double Gins;
The eats- crust less widges with potato skins;
The brass band plus- the plus being a feminine
Tuba who unfortunately sings.

Do you understand
This very English sort of thing:
The Wellington boot throwing,
The bowling for a rare breeds’ pig,
The showing off of your wagging mutt,
The growing of another nagged at gut
On iced fairy cakes and warm Guinness?

I’ll buy a book of gum pink raffle tickets
For a sit-on mower or a case of Moet.
I’ll even watch the women’s cricket for a bit
Of underskirt distraction.
But, it’ll be the middle classes
In their waxed Barbours and field glasses
Who’ll finally do the fucking trick-
Making me action my invisible things
By the cat-shitted sandpit
And the rubberised kid proof swings;

Poetic things like watching the English
Being very English,
Anthropological things
Like clocking the alleged
Cock action
In the nearby cottage stroke WC
Where men infected by the English disease
Come to ease their symptoms
And summon sleep of an afternoon
Amidst the reek of urine and Dettol.

I wonder,
Do the Lemon Curd-n-Cheese
Judges know
That the local gents is a trysting place,
Famous online for its networking,
Its low-lit wristing,
Its larded fisting,
Its group groping?
One hopes so.

And fancy,
All that frenzied jerking off
Going on
But a stone’s throw
From the Village Fete-
It’s bunting and Union Jacks
Shot through with boredom and envy;
Our summer fayre
Where some obvious social climbing
Fascisterly disgrace
Has her thin taupe lips twisting
On the axis
Of another convoluted platitude-

‘My husband says, being new gentry,
It’s rather shrewd of us to come.
He calls it his charm offensive.
Villages like ours are dying.
They desperately need the support.
It would be rude to not show willing.
Besides, we were the main contributors to
The Disabled Toilet. It was in the paper.
One does what one possibly can.’

Then,
Yet again
The losers’ feral attitudes
Make a proper picture postcard
As red rosettes are pinned
On the blowfly breasts of the winning toffs
And battered silver cups are held aloft
To the faint praise of damnation-
A sparse and hollow applause
Often heard in community halls.

The canvass longhouse starts clapping
Because the hot air freshens.
I decide again, I love West Sussex time-
For Horsham and Chichester
And Arun valley hamlets in decline.
Several spent men on oak benches,
All of them straight as a die,
Snore for Queen and Country
As the band marches by.

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A WORTHY HARVEST
[For Dan 23 August 2007]

I now converse with you
Within,
Somewhere deep beneath my skin,
As when debating with myself
Whether to or not to leave my
Swivel seat
And go and greet you gardening
In the drizzle,
Your antiqued hat a battered vanity,
The breeze and rain
Attending gently to your new tattoo.

When I do make the effort
You always look at me
Like you have always looked at me
With a smile to kiss my moistening eyes.

But now you say without the least
Surprise
How you’d just thought I would arrive.
And that feels awful good.

These dreamy days
We feast upon each other’s senses
Like we once happily surmised
We one day could.

Two decades of mutual growing
And we still turn each other’s earth
And sow fresh seed so every year
We gather in
A worthy harvest on your birthday.
No cards. No presents.
Just love
And love’s intelligence.

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Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ADAMANT WOOD

The tenth’s
Glorious glut
Of sugars
Melding

Olives with burnt umbers
Berries, russets, plums
And bell ends

Lays bare
The trees’
Amazing
Chemistry of leaves

I wish
You’d wash
Your unnatural lips
The goo stick
Is too vivid

Redolent
Of engorged labia

Here
In adamant
Autumn wood
I see you smile
Like Eve
And think
Cunt

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ALL OVER YOU

I’d walk three miles
To Crow Village,
A dog who’d sniffed a bitch
With no misgivings.

First she gave me homemade
Lemonade
Tart and thirst quenching.
Then she took a bath-
The vicarage plumbing
Laughing
At our daring adolescence.

In the glare of white enamel
I was introduced to
Drenching skin in
Baby oil.

Unprepared,
She stripped me
Back to bare tumescence.
Soon,
I’m fucking away
Pumping her for details
Of her previous lay.
[Less than
Satisfactory by the way.]

Even when he’d told me
She’d be easy,
I had
The devil of rotten hots
For him.

I stopped-
Didn’t leak a drop,
The girl’s fingers a blur
And her sighs seismic.

I wonder now
If she ever knew
That in my maybe gay mind
I’d virtually
Gripped your puny cock
And come in cyber pearls
All over you.

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Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ALMOST VIRGINAL

She’s the witch
Bewitching the bewitched,
The home-making siren
Screaming run.
She’s got everything
You might conceivably desire
Bar one.

I’d be so disappointed
If her clit was in fact it,
All there was.
I’m not of that persuasion
Inclined to lick the little critter
Stiff,
Forever waiting for her
Yes, yes, yes.

My taste runs to other shit-
Shoving my dick in a difficult fit,
Swopping dead hard tales
Of properly sex adjusted
Hetero males
Who turn out for a drink,
A respite from the gobby missus,
And think nothing
Of backroom bristle kisses,
Tonguing a naked butt with fervour
Urging
The livid rectile muscle on
To open up just a little bit further.

‘Man’, he says, ‘Man’,
Between slow strokes
Making an instant comparison
With the slack fuck bucket back at home
‘Jesus! You feel
Bloody tight tonight cowboy,
Almost virginal!’

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Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

best sex

i happily survive
your game of touch
and tag along
holding on
then feigning
you have painfully gone

and in the briefest loneliness
I find such sweet regret
fearing you have flown
this beating chest
to meet with rivals
for your sensual tenderness


waiting to be caught
i do irrational thoughts
because of you my love
and always ache
to have my passion taken
seriously yet teased
to be surprised
and taken unawares
then roundly squarely pleased

unleashed
upon our coupled senses
best sex comes
when least expected
a beast with two backs
undetected
breaking out
to breach our strict defences
with rude inventions

just like this
no posing flowers
no stolen hours
no-one proposing
clinical showers
but hot
and dirty
unwedded bliss

no body part barred
from being kissed
where sheets remain
unkempt as meant
with not one shred
of missed intent or shame

where eyes stay friendly
moist with memory
unfettered smiles persisting
warm as fire
despite the bettered flame

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CAMPO THE CHRISTMAS FAIRY

The pink fairy on my Christmas tree is queer,
His name is Campanula- GLBT ginger beer.

First he was outraged to be speared by the spruce,
A butch Swedish fir that his cell-phone calls Bruce.

Now they make out in flagrante in my D&G hall,
Bedecked with prickly holly and proper waxed balls.

When mincing friends attend for spicy wine and pies,
I show him gender bending and they wince wide-eyed!

See, lights glow beneath his knickers, flicker at his flies.
Nothing fools the Queens when it comes to tool size.

At one with his feminine, Campo’s genuine, sincere,
Hung enough to ring my bells from here to new year.

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Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CURSED KISSES

Despite the poet’s cross-
Heavy to bear
To the summit where
Their difficult lives thrill,

Easy street tossers are
Still posting utter dross,
Disposing
Of their gissum spills
As if these sticky inner gleanings
Have some esoteric meaning.

One’s too easily mesmerised
By what should really be despised.

I think
They must have lost
Their bedside spunk rags,
Got post orgasmic
Soft in the swimming head;
Thought they might
Write
Poems of insignificance instead;

His done dick deflating,
Like a spent balloon,
Her fucked cunt pulsating,
Like an abattoir moon;
Fired up minds empowered,
Inspired,
By an adman’s cupid and cliché flowers.

We’ve heard it all before,
The underwhelming adolescent roar
Of pseudo ‘you go’ inspiration
Involving sweet come hithers
As one more sour passion withers.
These are the worst of
Cursed kisses.

No care at all
For the unwary likes of us-
Old duffers at the wailing wall.
Lordy, lordy me!
Love doth suck mighty
In the contemporary
Land of the frightened free!
Genocidal Zionists bleating
Me, me, me!

BUT, after such
A new, blue, glut
Of unoriginal rushes to lust,
Why can’t they all just
Shut the Myspace up,
Or, for the first and only once,
Be a tad magnanimous
And spontaneously combust.

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Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

EMPTY VESSELS

To watch a house
After dusk
The mandarin over glow
Hushing lesser stars,
The common privet moist
To lean against
Yet giving, like flesh,
Cannot be easy.
You’d be scared stiff
Of your own fluid daring.
You’d be rattling like a jar
With nothing in it.

You would surely be observed-
Seen as the purpled shadow
Loitering at the edge of the world.
You would be shuddered at
By some arthritic elder-
The pain making her sit and spy
Like a flowerless vase
In shawl and lightlessness.
She’ll be the one
..........To go to her phone,
..........To slip on a door mat
..........To die alone.
..........A crock in fragments.
How could you know that?

How could you know
The whereabouts of anything
Beyond the bidding portal-
Its jaw dropped
Letting bath steam saunter
Where it will,
Better than having it tongue
The newly decorated hall,
Letting the paper slip
Like family secrets?

My bet is you were born
In such a place,
Had your shit smeared in your face
And was left. Was left again
Then left for good.
That’s it,
Your sphincter muscle tone
Made slack by dad,
His mates and
Mother’s brother Jack.

But what decides this new act,
Committing you to attack the innocent?
I guess the kind of instinct
That makes falcons glide-
Silent as death
Above the shrew’s rabid scramble,
Its heart a frenzied tambourine
Before the talons
Cut short any scream,
An alloy of nature and nurture,
Need and hunger.

Or, could there be another inner voice,
The Black Sea in an empty shell,
That whispers in Russian, now or never.

You creep quiet
On crepe rubber soles
‘Cross the crazing paving,
Then the bare threshold.
The insane boldness
Brilliant.
Your face and balaclava flashed
Pink by mood bulbs.
And against the flow
Of all religious sense evaporating
You eat the shaggy stairs
In giant strides
To reach the treasure unawares.
AND
Then you fly-
It is the only explanation.

You superman it, hands wet,
A Cindy flannel pressed
Against her breathless baby face,
To the solemnly chosen, nearby place.
The street lamps blind.
The back alley kind to evil.

THEN,
Under the flap of a rodeo mac
You prise her mussel open,
Roar the act ungentlemanly,
Being voiceless.
BUT making
Just the faintest crack
Of teeth denting a toffee-apple skull.
Your grey disgust dripping
In that horrendous lull
Before the coming buzz of
The perfectly planned getaway-
Short jog to a blue Ford Van,
Glove compartment full
Of moist ones.
Long drive
To a pre-booked Travel Lodge.
..........A leisurely bath.
..........A fry-up in a Little Chef.
The news on the TV
As graphic as you expect.
Invisibility made easy.

On a strange divan
You snooze into a half sleep,
Despite the cold turkey
Come down
To earth with a bump,
Your chilling perversion dumped.
Then you drift in and out
Of dreamily planning
All the white-knuckle risks
Of your next thrilling excursion.

The baby’s ghost of a mother
Poor lowing cow,
Is in all the tabloid papers now-
Ripped of spirit,

An empty vessel
Sounding off the most with
Groundbreaking headlines,

‘How was THIS fuckin’ done?
Give me. Give me. Anyone!
If only I had a loaded gun!’

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Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

EXPOSED IN PRINT


At the onset
Of the Yuletide semester
A stunning new poppy crop
Of over spun educators
Still naive,
Wet behind the ears,
Burning with a passion
And a stash of coke,
Have begun to teach
The deaf to hear sense,
The unsighted to see through
Jokes at the blind’s expense,
The mute to shout, spit it out,
In rage against machines,
All sick-n-sorry religious regimes,
Those get rich quick
‘The Secret’ schemes
With their slick moral means
To that neat trick, a desired ending-

Befriending then
What virgin opportunity comes
Out of illiterate mums’
Front bums
And dads’ pint glass expectation.

I saw Cate Blanchett play
The part alongside Dench
In ‘Notes On A Scandal’
With its bracketing bench scenes
Set in stone,
All before one half-remembered
View of hell
That I still think may well have been
Herne Hill where I first turned
The other way,
Gay as a nine bob tenner,

[Shock, horror, backs to the walls
Cupping hands over dick and balls.]

In front of multo phallic tower blocks
Being rubbed by midget window monkeys.

My point is proper prole schooling
Not this drooling over pubescent boys;
Merit where it’s due, that kind
Of joyless, gold star or crescent thing
Invented by Oxbridge civil servants
Nursed on quail’s eggs and Pooh Bear,
Obsessed with stats and ethnicity maps.

[You want it. Now sir!
How sir?
Wow- soirée!
Unzip.
Hunger. Kecks away!
Fifteen and so up for it.]

Carnality in the English cupboard,
Afternoon break, he has me
Over a virtual barrel. His fuck buddy,
Head Of Drama, his very own
Imitation of the Michael Farrell,
Whose genital smell is OMG.

[It beggars belief,
But there are, today,
16th Nov 2007, 10408
Books below criticism,
For sale items, pleading
Their case on Lulu.com’s
Poetry with a small ‘p’
Self-publishing browser.
Indulge me please.

These vain poets are who?
Young men, maybe, believing
Their torrid love boasts are the first,
The horrid original worst
And, as a consequence of ‘rarity’,
MUST FUCKING BE
Some interest to the reading world
At large.
They could not be more wrong.

There are other types. They could be,
Perhaps, the older woman seeking
Thrills from late-onset clitoral criticism
And other ills like gissum in their
Avant garde
‘There’s Something About Mary?’ hair.
They wear their
Hirsute shirt of creative expression,
Being fashionably struck,
Just now, with the poetic pathology
Of Plath, the dark muse of Hughes
Who did refuse her
More meritorious rogering.
Now, this creature’s really not in step
Or, in any way, on song,
She’s not satisfied, not entirely satyrised,
Not yet fully satiated.
Oh my God!]

Too many teenage cocks
So little time,
Cate sucking it to him
As if his cum were vintage wine.
Well, it is an ageless well
Of Chablis shot in lovers’ glee;
The night grass flat between
The stationary trains
A mead for their idyllic recumbence,
She flattered, he hard again
Bare seconds later, pale rump a blur,
At its antithesis once more, then
Changing,
In mid-act stuttering a smooth chin
Into her rejuvenated guttering.
Homework for French GCSE.
The oral exam.

[Mais oui.
And may we say
There always is another way.
Get real
Reveal
Your pink elastic, veiled self,
Lady;
Give the lucky lad
A right rustic feel wrist deep.

Miss, you are so bad,
Exposing yourself in print
And now, in my gang, fucking famous.]

I’m declining all offers
To go there ever in haste,
Fearsome of the raw omelette
You’d make of my
Happy slap-me out-there face:
The vainglory of it plain as day,
The taint of which
Will stick like a crude tattoo
And never,
In this foreshortening lifetime,
Fade away.

So many piss poor poems
Share the half-life of
Pernicious plastic carrier bags-
500yrs of unwarranted
Over-processed oil of
Western Arabian presence,
Stuck in the landfills
Of our tame acquiescence
Where the lame words quietly
Amuse the sentient
Sky rattling gulls
And other such
Literate shit sifters.

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FUCKING HELL

‘Your cunt stinks
Of my lover’s cock.
What the fuck’s
Been going on?’

In my enforced absence
The lawn’s become a meadow
Windfalls litter it
Like my angry footsteps
Booting the bruised fruit
Into spent borders laughing at me-
The nettles and the lilies
Waving in dumb encouragement.

When you fingered his arse
Did you ask how it feels
With my eel slithering up there?
I bet you did.

Sun steams moisture
From the greenhouse glass
Its cucumbers rotting
On their thirsty stems.
Men!
It was a sacrifice
This green Nirvana dream of mine.

I slide dew wet loafers
On the dusty floor.
She asks me how it went.

‘You know,
A funeral in Kent in autumn
Is always penetrated
By the scent of roast barley
And hops.’

I go to hit her very hard
And his sudden power brings restraint.
I know that smell.
It always made my willy swell.
I tell him-‘Fucking hell! I have my mother’s
Ashes in the car!’
As I do I realise, since it’s written
In black neon on his eyes,
I don’t live here anymore.

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GAY LAY-BY
For John Goldsmith



My love’s keynote smell is
Locked within my pores,
His scent exploring
Way beneath the skin
Where there, like patient doggers,
Wait my wild neural highways
Empty
But for his high performance bike.

Inside
My mind’s hide he’s riding
At the speed of light sensation
Just to find
With every touch and thrust
The inspiration for my loving him
And liking what he does well once
Then does again.
Dear God.

I drive a clear way
Free from traffic
A black top
From my hot head to my gay heart
And halfway home a Welsh lay-by waits.
Now,
Moving his shift stick into park,
There’s handy,
A promising place to start.

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GO FUCK YOURSELF

He got so excited
It was over too quick.

She was his first,
THE BEST, no contest.

Next time
[DISNEY SAYS there always is a next time]
He’ll stick it in her,
Nudge her Taco Bell dinner. YEAH!

It was well good
He said, ‘NOW I can’t get enough!
But it’s a shame you can’t just
GO FUCK YOURSELF’

Give him a few knock backs,
Her being mega shirty
Screaming how his smeg is dirty,
He’ll soon work it out.

Women bleed. That worn Lennon creed,
Woman is the nigga of the world.
Give her a whirl.
But guys get wise, keep your wealth.
For the sake of your mental health,
GO FUCK YOURSELF.

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HAVING FUN
From ‘Digishots Of Dos Playa Del Ingles’

In pink Spain we’d sit and knit the view
With guillotine needling- like you do
When what commonly confronts
Is more than usually uncomfortable
But entertaining. Are we complaining?
Shorts up your crack, a sweating back.
I confess this gay weakness of character,
Not having the heart to stunt it one bit.
We’re queer. Over here. On the ginger beer.

It’s part of our way with wit to bitch
When the thin guy in the very sequinned tie
Looks shit; being close in fact to proper racist.
When not returning rude fire, minorities
Often incline to point weapons at themselves.

But here, the major hets are so outnumbered
They’re the ones who’ve become encumbered
With that fetid taste of what it’s like to be
Lumbered with outcast stereotyping and prejudice.

In some humorous reversal sent by God,
Brit wives worry for their husband’s disposition
To explore a dark back-room, to put to bed
A long held, prison seeded, superstition
That men give the very best head. She’s livid,
For once in fierce competition with a blight
About which she has no warring insights.
She’s out of step, left her depth. He’s still in.
He winks. I smile. The poor incarcerated sap.
Her bile’s on the rise. His night will be crap.

Local married men drive here from Las Palmas
To get their Friday fix of cock. Where’s the harm?
His breeder’s at home, clock watching, alarmed
At the way time flies when you’re having fun.
Post natally depressed she unlocks his rabbit gun.

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INDELIBLE

One stark image has beaten
Countless words from me;
None have stuck
Until today, and even they
Defeat this art of squeezed words
That fucking sets me so apart
From life’s bare realities.

Is it absurd that
I am in despair, presently
Eaten up with fear that poetry
Has not the guts to wage war
On cruelty meted out by apes
Whose faith has replaced reason
With conflict and stricture?

Shit! One haunting picture
Taunts me to respond,
To more than merely moan
But go beyond, outside
My comfort zone, inside Iran
Which, despite the Koran,
Is the model fundamentalist
Islamic state of social fascists.

They kissed, these Muslim boys.
They sucked each other’s cocks.
Then, spent and out of breath,
They missed the wicked whispers,
The feigned shock of veiled sisters.
They made the death list,
Failed to make the cut of a reprieve.

I see them still, just about to swing,
Teenagers in crisp shirts, fringes
And blindfolds. The cold photo
Syndicated world-wide. Side by side,
Young lovers hanging from cranes,
Their last eruptions making stains.

Indelible. Too terrible.
Incredible how we all move on
To be so crass, impotently
Sifting our plastic from our paper.

INEXPENSIVE AFTERSHAVE

I’m her faggot poet friend
From the garret ‘cross the hall.
She’s my minder, my white Mike Tyson,
The harlot ‘Fat Sand’-
She calls herself vivacious, curvaceous,
Does fuck, suck and hand,
But never kisses
Or gets her huge and voluminous tits out.

I love her, God love her, ‘cause
She knows shy lad Dave
Who, she says,
Has got the biggest cock in Colchester.

Sand’ always sets out her plump-sex stall
As plain as a tattoo on her pumpkin face;
Chav fakery done to overcooked
In a box blonde crown over
Ginger biscuit brown spray tanned skin;
Piglet eyes hidden by contraband Raybans;
Her fuchsia pink and black label reading
‘My heart bleeds.’

It is a shame.
Her dad is a private dentist,
Drives a new Volvo estate,
Her mother’s a minted drunk
Drying out in Spain.

Lager fuelled clients
Often tickle our top stairs
Sometime after last orders,
Occasionally in threes, most often in pairs,
Fit squaddies excited
To be giving her double helpings
In the same black hole of shaved holies;
Maybe getting man-wanked,
Gunned in the arse,
Spanked for being a naughty boy.

She gives her best to repeat playings of
‘The Power Of Love’-
A song I’ve learned to endure
Through gritted ear drums.

Over breakfast, sitting at table
Grinning like advertising’s man and wife,
We avoid talking about work-
Her moonlighting, my ear wigging writing.
She Hoovers in Frosties and scrambled egg.
I butter her tea-stained toast
And extol the virtues of organic honey.

She gives me notes,
Scruffy money she’s saved,
For her share of the electric;
They smell of stiff soldiers’ dick
And inexpensive aftershave.

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LA LA LA

Still at school,
I’m gay.
My best friend is not-
No way.
He says it’s cool.
Fuck! I think he’s hot.

What
I wouldn’t give
For a snog of his cock
But it’s not going to happen
He’s happy with his bitch.
She sucks
But she scratches his itch,
Gives him a wiz, never the hole biz.

The ugly tart.
She’ll break his heart-n-balls.
I’m here waiting
For when the fan shit falls.
We’ll hug then.

Then we’ll bugger
The living daylights from each other,
Watch Broke Back Mountain
And say
‘Love will always find a way.’

Intense, man action in tents.
Cock-a-Mamie! It’s immense
His recent decision to come out
And shout about it from Mars-

‘We’ve got a PENIS
We hate the planet Venus
DICKS are just so in
CUNTS are out. La la la.’

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LIQUID INK

He played her
For a fool.

She
Opined
In feminist verse
Making matters
Much worse
With her
Perverse
Lack of grasp
Of what it might mean
To be well versed
In things
Of far more consequence
Than

...a tan,
...rimming,
...blue lozenge shopping,
...domicile prostitution,
...pill-popping,
...pop-singing
...chucking up an artwork.

Her worthless Myspace pieces
Demonstrate
How he never did forget
To spin
Her homemade self-belief
With cascades of convincing
Love lies.

Give
And
Take.

Yet
They
Were over
Way
Before they began-
Her not so subtle eye
For
The wealth ridden,
Plasticised,
Penis extended, older guys,
Being as obvious
As the blunt
Unattractive fact
That
He could actually fuck her
Any way
Any time.
Which he did.
She let him.

His memorable prick
Being
Undeniably unforgettable,
Liable to
Totally screw her
Future
Sex
Life
Forever.

He played it bare-back
And she bled
In all three holes.
Damn!
The thought of that
Never
Entering
Her head until...

She
Couldn’t shake off colds,
Slept in a lot,
Got thinner,
Sought a second opinion
About a blue-grey mole
That had
One Monday morning
Arrived in a helluva rush,

Like a new poem
Writing itself
On her frightened face
With permanent
Liquid
Ink.

Poetic
Lines she recognised
And clung to,
Jotted down
In case she lost their
Vestigial brilliance;
The light of which,
She knew,
Just put her on
The doorstep of
A very special place.

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MENDING THE SHOWER

I’m shyly sad
‘Bout yes’days
Intimate
Precipitation,

Fallout
From
Grace.

Kiss ma arse
U dingbat
And put right
The situation.

Punch
Ma
Face.

I wan’ sun son,
Seaside-n-frolics,
Not this PC
In frost forlorn
November
Bollocks.

Shift ma cock.
Sit on ma
Laptop.

Touch. Really.
Feely feely.

Mend the shower.

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PILLOWSLIPS AND PYREX

I said before
The congregated family,
Friends, means to ends, God’s pastor
And a choir of harridans,
How I loved her
[What a mad lie then!]
When in truth
I only ever loved the idea of her
But dared not make it plain
For I’d honed ambivalence-
Scared stiff of incarceration
Of being made a monster’s bitch.

Freshly polished pews
Infused the breath of freesia
With pining memories
I’d smothered with convenient amnesia.

Life’s great events lend themselves to that.
The hats of consequence get aired
To match, then hatch and finally dispatch
With feathered fear and hidden hatred.

My mother and my father
Would too soon lie where I stood-
Empty old husks in wastrel wood,
Bare of flowers and flummery.

My side-burned lover, as was,
Was best in all things-
Heartbeats, shared showers.
But he was not my ‘best man’.
He could not have been.
It had to be my ageing brother
Who stayed my feet from fleeing
From this days ‘disgrace’
To yet another.

The bringer of my daughter’s lives
Was not much more besides
A blinding means to make society blind.
She did this with her great beauty,
Intelligence, wit and marital duty,
A confection of allure and deceit
That kept her kindly, polygamous and discreet.

I wept each day for thirteen years
In fear of the bitter mess I’d bled
That pre-nuptial night;
The way he’d kept to his bachelor bed-
My pale calling ‘cross the landing
Not spoken of at English breakfast;
The waking
Of an opaque snake of slight regret.

It seems [Now I know there is no doubt.]
I might have been a transitory means
For his eventual discovery that slipping
Into moist women was, for him,
A good deal more his cup of tea
Than gobsmacking man-orgasms.

It may well have been himself
Who with cruel whimsy filled
A new galvanised dustbin to the brim
With hard-core Scandinavian porn,
Tying it into fashionable bad taste
With its ribbons of florescent green,
Making the glut of sex toys unmissable
Amongst the pillowslips and Pyrex.

That damned bin, mocking me
For mocking,
For wedding to avowed mockery
Both quaint and faintly shocking,
I used for growing new potatoes in.
I remember
The scent of their December treasure-
Warm washed cock and troubled earth
I’d buttered up for seminal pleasure.

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ROCKET MAN

I was ten and fancied men
Were the thing
That I was missing-
Da shrugged off my cuddles,
Resisted any kissing.

Instead,
Well read,
I took Sparta to bed
And fought like fuck
Beside my ripped lover.

Waiting for puberty-
Examining my spam daily,
Gaily shaving a smooth chin,
I longed to be wronged
By inappropriate nudity.
Then a nineteen year old
Doll in the same swim team
Got a redwood in his blue speedos,
I was made up,
Proper chuffed for ages.

Years later, after cross-country-
Being passed by every arse
I fancied,
I went to shower and fainted,
Overpowered by chest hair,
And hair down there.
It was that sight of cocks in nests
That was my best
Yet.

I’d so ached to be abused
But, like Elton John,
I never was in point of fact,
Except by his song ‘Rocket Man’
Which still does
Make my balls contract.

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SHARING ABSURDITIES


A tender friend
Just lately diagnosed
With prolonged death
Replete with

H..indsight
I..ntrospection
V..ictimisation

Sent me a mobile text
About gung-ho hetero sex-

.....36inch DD breasts
.....covered in warm Belgian chocolate
.....1inch erect nipples
.....pierced with gold rings
.....topped with whipped cream
.....clean shaven minge
.....framed
.....by an open crotch leather thong
.....moist anchovy clit
.....smothered in a prune coulis-
.....this is not ordinary porn
.....this is M&S porn.

It made me Cheshire grin
Thinking of him
.....Stroking the cat,
.....Counting his skin
.....Blemishes,
Still having the time
To enter in the words
And to the spirit
Of sharing absurdities.

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SPOILED ROTTEN

Shazza has a bad-n-sad habit
Used to steal, to do kerb tricks
Anything to work to support it.
Now she’s SELLING her kids.

Tracy-Madonna is barely six.
Her brother Ben is just another
Highly PROFITABLE hole; he’s ten.

His mum RENTS both of them
By the hour to mostly men
Who film all the lewd sex acts
On a set with a settee that’s
Covered in see thru plastic.

Broad smiles, coz paedophiles
Are charged a PREMIUM RATE;
They pick her kids up late
But have ‘em home for eight.
She insists on a family breakfast,

‘It’s the best meal of the day,
Gives you grit’ they hear her say.

Counting mountains of CASH, she
Stashes it away for when ‘DEALS
On Wheels’ is knocking on doors
Singing-
‘Lady, what is mine is yours
Here’s the goods that you ordered,
Come on,
Baby, baby, give up the gravy.’
Of course
It’s shocking, but it’s also TRUE.

.....Rush
To judgement, why don’t you
NOW. The poor fucking cow!
.....Just hush
Your mouth being holier than thou.
These kids get tons of sweets,
Fitted shoes on their feet,
Loads of love and attention.
Spoiled they are. SPOILED ROTTEN.

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DREAMS OF A MASTURBATOR

Before the nest room consumes me
I softly close the door.
It is the last tread of needs.
Books, bed, clothes, meds.

There’s a single red rose looking dead-
I love yous dried, their skin wrinkling.
I find the spilled smell of us twinkling.
But inside of me an ominous welling
Hint of a high tide and a rook of dread
Combine spread wings and waves
And share my desire to bare teeth and feed.

Naked, I make a fat-boy foetus,
Soon to be at it in our field of cotton-
Tears kissing pillows whose songs
Of former re-births long forgotten,
Have me writhing as if bound again,
Loathing the restraints of recent change.

Ch..change has me painting a new life.
To watch me folding then unfolding
Like flesh origami would be shocking-
My infant bright fluids running oily wet
Then drying invisible, the magical
Organs pleating in and roundabout.

A brand new umbilical begins to spout
Today’s lewd nutrition and erotic waste,
And, in the devilish overbearing air,
The sweet taste of a fresh tomorrow
[That I’ve borrowed yet again from hope,
So I might breathe once more and cope.]
Makes me suckle on a fucking thumb
For want of a live nipple.
Oh God..God love us! Here I..here I come.

I knee-jerk,
Languidly killing the tired porn,
Then sleep some.
Later waking messed and cold.

I see my glut of guilt taken by ravens,
Torn like dead fish from a flaccid ocean,
The dreams of a masturbator
Creamed off
By baby rosebud lips, stirred and shaken.

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THE OUTING

He was three
Nearly reading newspapers
When his ma took him off to the sea.
Steam train capers
Under an August sun- her personal escape
From everyone else
Who swore they owned a slice
Of her intimate wealth- secret flesh and bone.
In bliss he went buoyed by innocent content
1952. The view made rosy by her love
As they put distance between hearts and home.

Cornflower blue the empty sky
That skimmed the sea like eye-liner
Black lashes holding back
The sifted grit of shattered stone-
Just a giant’s sleepy dust
And tidemarks at his unwashed neck,
His huge toes buried in the high dunes
Where lizards basked.
Shells from Shell Bay; it was a day
For small boys collecting
Various shells in painted buckets,
Sorting the best from the rest
While she slept fitfully- one eye on the shore
Another on the roar of life.

A naked man stood in sandals where you pee,
A mix of shadows and shafting light,
His trunks at knee height,
Dinkle dancing stiff, straight, red; a gigantic
Moment for a pre-school head
Who knew when to run and scarpered
Spilling his prize selection.

I gave no battle. Mum rattling on
How the sun was sinking
What with the two return tickets burning
In her purse. We did a good silence.

That night there was no row over supper-
Da delighting in rice-pudding skin, his angry face
Displaced by pleasure
Though he never kissed me goodnight, ever.

In bed there was no emptying my head
Of the outing’s significance.
Men have this ‘to be explored’ in-between the legs
Magnificence- glistening like moist Da lips.
It made me itch, want, need,
To feed the ache in my inquisitive finger-tips.

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THE SNACK

I fear your unusual needs,
A sexual adventurer requiring
More of me than I can give.
I’ve already let you
Go too far.
I’ve watched you sink your fist
Further than the wrist
Beneath my skin,
Inside my torso.
I’ve felt you finger my liver,
Tickle my bruised ribs from the inside.
And, last night, after you’d kissed
The dark side of my eyeballs,
I couldn’t sleep.
I kept imagining you in my mouth
Rock climbing north
To reach my frontal lobes
Through sinus cavities.
I know what you dream.
You’d love to be in miniature-
Small enough to sink your head
Inside my creaming penis.
I know you,
Never satisfied.
Even when you’ve conquered
The road trip to my kidney stones
You’ll fancy making history
By exploring me, anus to mouth,
With side-tours of my testes
Prostrate and bile duct.
Finally,
When you tap on the back
Of my front teeth I’ll widen my bite,
Let you crawl half out
Then shut it murderously tight.
Lust is like that-
First feast then famine.

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THE WHORE HE IS

Unused to such a fair weathered muse
I tire of waiting to be inspired,
The blight precipitating.

Its rain comes vulgar now-
A million plum and gold balloons
At a chav shotgun wedding
Where you have cava to consume
Instead of champagne;
Pink tissue shredding
The highlight of a dull table setting.

I’m bored with all the unremitting
Spitting.
Is it the one God’s criticisms shorn
Of all angelic witticism?

Then. Here comes the sun-
The beetle’s carapace splintering
Bits of dancing iridescence.
A breeze playing
In the leaves’ percussion section.
Bamboo. Bamboo in waltzing time.

I chance upon a likely rhyme
And time instantly freezes.
In that still frame
My muse is once more with me,
Teasing like the whore he is
But being really rather acquiescent,
Knowing full well
My thoughts on how this queer life drags
Up instantly our tears dry.

He is this taut tan in tight blue Speedos,
His true age incalculable.
Yes
Even angels can express a preference.

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THEY LOOK AWAY

.....Mother-licking dude
.....What’s been eating you?
.....Is it attitude or what?
.....Come on!
.....Give us all what you got.

I’m a this-n-I’m a that,
I’s bright, I’s fat;
I’s gay. Hey!
I ain’t got the need
To feed on geezus praying.
I’m ginger going grey.
I got glasses-n-I’s old.
I’m not hot. I is cold-
Know what I’m saying?

.....This shit’s too confusing.
.....I don’t find it so amusing.
.....You’s you.
.....Who gives a fuck what you do?

My given skin’s
Caucasian
A thinner shade of black.
It doesn’t mean
That I’m immune
From racialist attack.

You go figure why
Sometimes I
Feel just like a white nigger.
If I sense offense
Do ‘ho’s leap to my defence
Being PC?

No. The ‘ho’s don’t see me.
They don’t see me coz I’s pale.
Coz I’m not an alpha male
They look away.
Shit! What it really means-
They is spitting on my genes.
They look away.

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URINAL

Like it always is with fags
I say this fix is my last,
This is my final
Seminal time at the urinal.

I must no longer be
Addicted
To the predictable-
The dream engorged pricks
Of the same sex afflicted;

A million engorged inches
Waved in gleeful defiance
Of risk or surveillance;
Dry lips being licked
To refresh
The whetted beckoning.

By my shifty reckoning
I’m up for it, on
For a slick blow and go.
I’d bet my straight life
The punter’s a swallower.

Damn. Damn. I slam
The fuck cubicle shut-
His heavy fingering still
Stinging up my grateful
Butt, my white bolt shot.

The briefest bliss, then this-

She’s waiting, the wife
And a great son of five,
Both blind to my self-hating.
I’ve made them late for
.....The swings
.....The slide
.....The wide open space
Where it’s never safe
For a man’s lies to hide.

As I wave unwashed hands
At their familiar cameo
I get whiffs of opiate
Cock fun with a Mr So’n’so.

Image by CM for eye2eyedesigns international

Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

VICARIOUS PLEASURES

From the slow moving car
We saw this pretty rare
Sight for sore eyes-
A bare backed,
Six packed,
Coke break man
Wearing various tattoos
Torn denim jeans
And a Rottweiler bitch,
Strolling, like he owned it,
Through the perfect air
Of snobby Foxwood
Where the verges
Are beautifully blended
On the weekends
To fit the dream like a glove.

He trailed his hormones
Like sloughed skin,
So much so, you could see
The primroses primly shrinking
In fear of him,
The green litter bins laughing.

He was the sort of trash
Treasure
To make you want to wink at,
Just for the crack,
To have him come back home
And measure up for fitted Wilton,
To fuck your itchy lights out-

In another life, without a doubt,
That threesome is manifest-
A karmic collaboration
Of sex charged turnabouts.

Our vision privately amended,
Caressed by glimpsing
As much of him
As was possible then,
We drove on somewhat touched
By life’s vicarious pleasures,
The view, from all sides,
Made impeccable.

Image by CM for eye2eyedesigns international

Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WORTH TRYING

All the rank
Women I’ve been in-
Like a told child made to wear
Uncomfortable things
Such as home knitted gloves,
Have been
Sticky with overt survivalism,
Wet with wound ooze,
Booze and bickering;

Dead tricky to confide in,
Since it was always me
Frigging away at some
Road kill cat
Of an unpalatable twat,
Yet, all friendly like, hiding the fact
Of my distaste,
And my inner haste hastening
Like a loosed sight hound.

How could I have said,
Imagining
Her rabid giving head
Was Brando’s from ‘The Waterfront’...

‘ ’Ere, Rosie love,
I’m swerving away
From Laurie Lee’s fey frolic
In this fucking irritating cliché ridden
Hay loft writers’ class
Of redundant high-school assumptions.
See here. This is the thing.
The fact is
I’m softening up my cock
To escape the stench of cunt
To punt after ass.’

I’d stink of cowardice for that
Or youth-
For always wanting a painful repeat
Of her brother’s
Smothering shadow
As he unzipped corduroy
In the stable doorway
Roaring ‘Well bad lad! What do you think?’
And
‘Do you reckon this will fit?’
Streuth.

The truth is, everything I’ve ever done was
Worth trying.

Image by CM for eye2eyedesigns international

Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WORTHLING WORLD

God! Her
Pearl pink fishy sheen is omnipresent.
Now,
Manifest again
As the queen superbeing,
She creates a memorable ballsy buzz.

All of us
Dickcentric dads,
In thrall to her sting,
Would fuck her silly to high heaven,
Willy nilly.
Twenty four seven.
Cliché ridden.

‘Tuck in your teenage tongue my rabid son,
The devious, manipulative female of the species
Has your testicular reason on the run.’

Adolescently complex,
He mutters vows
In rut
To the ancient goddess of sex and lust-
‘Let me then explore the butts of sacrificial whores
Whose pricks are buttons blood engorged.’

So. The frantic tease is on,
The boy’s wanting warm.
Choice is winged, unhinged and set to swarm.
Cock. Shop.
Drop a pre-term bastard clone. Dead.
Give the lad a rubber glove to wrap round his bone.

In the end,
He’ll settle for the palest of pastiche,
Well within his league,
A proper niche mismatched
To wed, to hatch,
To first support and then divorce
Whenever the pen in him returns to fill his head
With Absinthian verse
And wizard words of course-

Shaman words of pure escapism
From this worthling world
Where almost everything is indubitably hers
But still, to spite him,
It is, as per market forces, just not enough;
Unlike the bits of garnered string,  
The scratched red lacquered Swiss army knife
The sheer audacity of sleeping rough
Talking tough and smelling,
Getting yourself a life.