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Poems

Fluff Drops

As I lie
Beneath clean sheets
Shedding the day
And all its stuff,
My overcoat
Of human dust,
Encounters, thoughts,
Emotional fluff,
Drops
Powder-like
Into the tray
Marked ‘Memory’
And is filed away

*

Vanilla Thighs

I’m drifting slowly backwards
bollock-naked
from the island
and its people
drinking tourists
struggling
in the shrinking shade.
All the close-knit awkward
Fitting
wrinkling
tight bits clinging
shoulders pinking
cocktail glasses tinkle
clinking
now begin to fade
into
insect silhouettes that
gently bob
behind my toes.

As I palm towards
the stripping sun
teasing
my compass
magnetised

In liquid quiet
she arrives
from way below
Vanilla Thighs
and stirs the depths
I take the plunge
dissolve
above her corkscrew dance
and bubble-rapt
within her trail
I stroke her long
legs
cool and pale
and
follow deep down in the
blur green blue
(white echo) her descent
onto the bed
I spiral
snatch
her afterglow
and up ahead
the vision
clears
her
black bikini disappears

into the sand
before
my eyes
yeah
here she comes
Vanilla Thighs
smudged
invitation
chalky whirlwind
whisked
ascension.

This is it
together
thirsting
sex-propelled
we smash the surface
bursting
fill our lungs
with tropic air
and crash
a mattress floating
cushioned
cradled
loose

hung out to dry
we sweat
and kiss
vibrating
droplets multiply
cream
perfect breasts
hot stretching
flesh
red
ruby wet
mouth opens round and
sucking
in the sky I climb
and rise
Vanilla Thighs
Exquisite heat
and now
the fucking

alarm clock
wakes
me up.

*

TRACY’S NOSE

My friend Tracy’s got a beautiful nose
With a strong and inquisitive blend,
The shape is cute and really suits –
It leans back and turns up at the end.

The bridge of her nose is a nice, relaxed slope
That doesn’t get in the way
Of a face that is honest and open with hope –
A beautiful nose has our Tray.

Her nostrils are cool and reside in the shade
Of an impudent snout that is perfectly made
For smelling the world and its numerous scents
And to challenge the motives of advancing gents.
This nose is well-balanced – not crooked or bent,
Yet it still remains humbly displayed.

Its mysterious caverns are hollowed and honed
To compliment the line of the bone
Of this nose that is parked in an excellent space –
She has gorgeous nostrils, has Trace.

This nose likes a laugh and it likes a good think,
The curve is learned and wise,
And it can sniff out a stink without having to wrinkle
Her huge brown Canadian eyes.

With her creative juices, it’s an artistic nose;
A haven for hankies, the Queen of all colds,
A nasal nirvana for all Eskimos –
The pick of the crop, a joy to behold!

But my friend Tracy doesn’t like her nose,
Although most think it fits her just fine.
Now, I’m not too crazy with the one I own,
So maybe she’d swap hers with mine?

*

THE HEAT

THE HEAT

SMOTHERSMOTHERSMOTHERS

ME

IN MY

BED.

WITH WINDOW

AJAR

S H E E T S

ARE

SLOVENLYSLUNGBACK

AND FROM

AFAR

A

TAXI-CAR

CRAWLS..
.
.
.
. .
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
. . . home.

THE HEAT

EATS ME.

A PRISONER OF

CLIMATE,

THE KEYS

TO MY

CELL

HAVE

MELTED

SO

I

JUST

SIT

AND

S
M
O K e . . .

*

THE SLEEVE WaSP

In a railway queue in October
I felt something between
My left wrist and my denim jacket
Just by the ticket machine.

It was a Sleeve Wasp!
A Sleeve Wasp –
Bazumberling around,
Resting from its Summer spree
In safety from the ground.

Perhaps he’d hitched a ride with me
To regain some Sleeve Wasp dignity
(Well you never know)

So

I said, “Listen up, you Sleeve Wasp,
I’m catching the Express
To London.
You may come with me.”
The Sleeve Wasp said, “Please, yes!”

“On condition,” I replied,
“That you promise to remain inside
My denim sleeve
Especially
when the Ticket-Guard arrives.”

“I promise!” said the Sleeve Wasp,
“I’m skint, so I will hide.”

So we boarded the train to London,
The little Sleeve Wasp and me,
And true to his word, not a wasp-sound was heard –
In my sleeve he’d fallen asleep.

But now on my sleeve
I must wear a wasp-wreath
Because he was dead just before Haywards Heath.

*

MAC ATTACK

Beaming thru fog:
The Golden Gateway to the stars
Displayed upon the chests
Of zombies
Whose medals have been won
For the Army of the Dead that
Peddles
Meat within a bun.

So,
What comes first,
The Nuggets or the Muffin?

It’s a tough old choice
On McDonald’s Farm.

And bumbling through the blur
Of a bloodshot hotplate haze,
Purple trousers crease
And tightly greet.
Wiping trays
Is Darren who
At eighteen shows off
The moustache of ambition.
He reflects upon the many
Mop-wet slippydamp tiles,
Fiercely illuminated
By fake fluorescent, fixture-fitted
Primary coloured smiles.

Careful, don’t slip up son…

In this neon nether-Neverland
Small Peter Pancakes like to run,
Wee Wendy Burgers wallow
In the polystyrene Yankee fun
That little darlings always swallow.
Lazy parents yawn, lost
Boys and girls twist and gurn to
Hard-core technojungleragga and
Eat and eat and eat and EAT
In sound-bite celebration
Of another year consumed.
Fifteen minutes later they are
Spat out for another
Crocodile
With golden teeth,
Painted lips smack
Your welcome.

And picked out in the sights
Of the many strip-search lights
Sit King Burger and his Sprites
Of the Clown Table.
Swathed in the greedy glare
Upon his throne – a plastic chair,
He courts attention and r
ashly mentions to the munchkins
Sprawling banquets of his past,
Jamborees on Summer evenings
Where the food was never fast.
Ten year olds scoff
And belch into cartons.
Royally flushed
He administers pardons
And gets the Shakes.
His cardboard crown has slipped
As the chips are downed and dipped
With too much relish.

And
Oblivious to the children’s glee,
He’s missed the simple novelty
Of Cramelot’s absurdity.

No cutlery you see.

Just
Fingers and thumbs,
No charm,
No veg,
(one nod of the head, keep moving).

“You got it” –
Now, swallow
And
REPEAT.

*

Hung Up

If superstition wasn’t so deeply rooted
I would keep you forever
Because the forest you pine for
Is no longer your home,
It’s over the hill
And far away –
An empty field of spent land mines
Just primed
In time
For Christmas Day.

So, one more night you can stand
Before the habitual
Dressing-down at dawn
Will relieve you of medals
Awarded for ritual,
Religiously withdrawn
In fearful violation
Of a sacrificial decoration
On a Greatcoat
Proudly worn

Then with the bucket unwrapped
And kicked
From your base
You’ll slope by the bins
In the cold of New Year
And I’ll turn a blind eye
From the warmth of my place,
Pretending you never
Existed in here
And Life will resist you and
Somehow ignore
The once-evergreen thing
That is welcome no more
To spend Thirteenth Night
As a skeletal sight:
Browned-off and naked,
A spindly eyesore
With no room
In a world that a
Few weeks before
Had dragged you in through its front door.

Now I’m hung-up,
The planet’s hung-over
And you’ve come down
With tinselitis