The kiss, the wrestle of tongues,
seems uniquely human, the
need to explore that new person’s
mouth more intimate, more
intense than all those
further fumblings.
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Little Women Making Loud Noises
I’m not sure Ms. Alcott had
this in mind but I love
loud women in my life,
singing their songs full-throated,
spearing their words through
vain assumptions,
shaking pulpit and
parliament and shouting
“harder, faster” into my
receptive ear.
Professionals
Because the people who
think they know will
always prevail, we who
do know approach the
shoot with faint faith and
little hope, determined to
do our best whilst
praying for the dubious
charity of our audience.
Funny Bones
I’d rather be buried whole so
some 26th Century archaeologist might
disinter my bones and make
wild assumptions about my
life from what’s left of my
DNA.
Bare Bone
However careful we are, some
bare bone adheres to our soles
after even a short walk,
unhousled by history,
truffled by burrowers,
powdered by time,
blown by breezes into the
bushes we brush by,
trodden into our carpets and
perhaps, depending on how
fastidious we are,
ending up in our
vacuum cleaners.
Legion
You changed your look
each time I saw you
not knowing which
you was you
boy or girl
vamp or victim
fashionista or frump
Lezbollah or someone’s Sub
Mother or Child but
it mattered not for
you were you and
you were Legion.
These Islands
These islands are scored and
scarred with geometric shapes, the
meaning of which we merely
guess at, full of fantasies.
These islands have buried somewhere
more bodies than now live, their
lives as impenetrable as the
mist over their fields.
These islands are full of people who
jostle the ghosts, don’t see them
hanging in hedges like cobwebs,
swept from their houses like spiders.
These islands are full of strange angles,
unnatural mounds, stones pitched from
horizontal to vertical behind which
someone, at some time, hid.
Scorn
My business has many ways to express scorn:
the Lighting Cameraman who couldn’t
light a box of matches; the
Director who couldn’t
direct traffic; the
Producer who couldn’t
produce his prick from his trousers.
But you have refined scorn to a
simple glance.
Sun/Shade
Protecting myself from the heat
I have built a
shrine of shadows.
Empty Dancefloors
There’s this invisible
iron rod between us
ten feet long so
when I move you
move too in a
perverted mirror of
how we danced once on
empty dancefloors.
