That’s a place of worship and a sanctuary I thought
so I put my tongue in there
and sang
All Things Bright and Beautiful

She passes nothing but remarks
calls me dickhead, runt, alcoholic
five times a day
under her minaret
but is she sexy?
Oh yes….you bet !

She has the true grit of emery
if you rub against her long enough
you become smooth, French, polished.
A principled uva-pesca-vegetariana sultana
without her my every morning
would be a pig’s breakfast
of Stornoway Black Pudding
and offal, offal.

She’s disapproved, derided
disdained, disputed and disliked
since the day we first met
but do I love her?
Oh yes….you bet!

Once while clearing or cleaning
or somesuch
in a voice riven with
a craving for control
She said “It would
be good to have one place
where everything ends up”
Oh wouldn’t it just…….
That place was hatred

Back then
at night no time…no time…too eager for love
next morning…too keen on the day
but now
I could floss for Scotland
once I’ve had my cheese souffle,
malay satay, congee, pate, steak flambe, cassoulet,
onion soup gratinee , chicken liver parfait
with sauce veloute then sweet cafe au lait
and my wickedest way
with Eve’s Pudding

Umberto never found
much gold
and the Wa-na-na nation
moved downriver, got tee-shirts and flu
and died out

but you and I came, pale, protected
in jungle boots and close-weave khaki
and moist with a lust grown faraway
and we brought it here
and we were so hot together
we didn’t even need to undress
to make a happy ending

sometimes you would leap into the air screaming
sometimes I would shake the walls with my cries
often we would wonder if the neighbours were disturbed
even though there were none until the next valley

Many summers followed in showers of birdsong
the windows wide as our legs so the sweet weather could enter us.
In winters the low warm lights caressed our thighs…
we crackled with frosts, thawed in the inner folds of our bodies,
chafed and scratched each other red with use,
stained and ruined ourselves.
The world was a tired sensual morning
dragging itself from us ….the hot deep mud of desire.

One year we moved the bed to a different room
The joy of a change. The joy of settlement.
You gave a shriek of indignant womanhood…
and left in hormonal terror

I moved the bed again
to a room that felt less lonely
but it didn’t work
the nights just rained constantly
the mornings grey with aftermath.
Other women came to try
this new position
but they got backache
or contracted fear
or they met your ghost
on the way to the bathroom

I became a prisoner here
chalking the months on the bedpost,
the touch of others irrelevant
the hope a curse

and when you came back
the jailers unlocked the iron gates
to let you in
chuckling,
sniggering obscenely
amongst themselves.

a perfectly ripe
Cox’s Pippin
of a girl.

Dont let the wee tykes from up the road steal you.

Quite intriguing really

As I touched them
I shifted in the bed…
a little uncomfortable
and thinking of yours.

I suppose when strangers meet
on a train
you can’t expect perfection
and true there had been a time
when you were a stranger….
and we worked on that.
You can work on anything….

but in the morning
I realized Georgia
had thin shoulders
and a rather flat behind…
and that working with figures
doesn’t interest me.