Free
Verse
Cockalorum
The throes of honeyed
vertigo
Take flesh to the optic nerve.
It fever heats on Roger’s loins
Or snuggles the bum–
A pilose paddedness.
I massage the rim of his cupping-glass,
Fond-thinking he’s shed his bike,
Tongue lustful
To ring the seat.
He’s the night sky I jump at,
Electric love’s lightning.
3 Chord
Dream
Boogie-Lou had two-story
baby blues
Both sited on one cheek.
The quirk of her flair
Recharged then dwindled
(A gas lamp twinkle in the grey matter
Flopped squat for sleep).
And in those eyeballs the flurries, the splatters,
O the splatter-flurries, and ourselves
In deep-going focus
Bellyaching.
The gazers-on
Tumbled stripteasing an ice-cubed snow
Feeling sure of mid-summer’s misbegotten sunscald.
She’s prima donna of hiccup rock.
Rue’s
Links
In my wish list
That’s irreplaceably you–
Come-at-able on the frost
Of the shush-squashed path.
But today’s real
No harm-unpromised skies.
Sand-shifts are sure enough,
Outsiders, goings-on.
A sip from a phallic flask.
Autumn in bum-fur leaves.
Time to come’s already run-up-against.
We have seeded disserviceable futures,
Never to giggle
In close carefree Decembers.
Daisy
Chain
Winter. Mist-by-night
winter. Mist-by-night
Dock in winter.
Shoeing the mist-by-night dock in winter. Lucian
Smoked shoeing the mist-by-night
Dock in winter. A blink
On Lucian as he smoked
Shoeing the mist-by-night dock
In winter. A blink from Gail’s eyes
On Lucian as he smoked
Shoeing the mist-by-night dock in winter. A blink
From Gail’s grey-cloud eyes
On Lucian as he smoked
Shoeing the mist-by-night
Dock in winter. A blink
From Gail’s grey-cloud eyes
On Lucian
As he smoked shoeing
The mist-by-night dock
In winter where foam-froth
Puckers the Ouse. In the indelible dream
A blink from Gail’s grey-cloud eyes
Skimmed Lucian as he smoked
Shoeing the mist-by-night dock
In winter
Where foam-froth puckers
The star-shimmered Ouse.
Glass
Table
I’m just a pane
Stocked by four ash-wood blocks.
Out-of-the-way she
Sidelong looks
Where a moon’s spark
Plays through me–
She may be up to an ‘at home’
With herself,
Making distinctions
With the stenciled floor.
In this petrifaction
Of feelings
What’s a cowslip,
Place mats, coasters?
When the spirit moves
‘The Morning Star’.
Smudges come, go.
The Hotpoint jiggles;
I shiver a thousand splinters.
Short
Sharp Shock
We’re back in love–
Hold the front page,
A slap in the face
For farce, rolling news, prestige-chasing, conspiracies,
(You’re too much).
Our past is a ghost
Stimulating the dead
From the safe-zones of the trapeze.
(Send in the clowns.)
Together we’re giddy
Fronting our thrones.
Am I still La Diva?
O arrogance. Desperado!
