or misrelated
spermary.
Nurse Slipfinger
fumbles the buffer with DNA.
A scrotum blast re-tossed
from the dummy prick.
Gunless is his holster.
Her fertile-fancies loining
a plastic-prostate boy
who fistful-jerked the morning
- daddy's grinning Action Man.
In A Little
Pond
Our steps are
legion
—intractable shoes prowl.
Rumbles and dumbshow arms
discriminate, an over-ridden lead.
Us, muffling thrill-stirring
under facial counter-streams,
collapse on war whoops
in foregrounding scenes.
This love was always a battle tango,
a cargo-shaft of gunpowdered hope.
The Play
On stage they were
bulrushes
hair-splitting illusionists,
a twitter was realised,
swivelling owl-light eyes
trimming faces with bonnets.
But the fill-the-bill incident
was that fever of lust on us...
...rose bed and velvet plaints
insinuated into abrupt hum-notes.
The balcony tiresomes threw wrinkled necks,
sat up.
Gone Tomorrow
Outriding the
come-to moon.
Assume we'd gullibly ride.
A glow on your skin.
Neighbourhood shadows.
This wasn't queening it
but visceral enough.
Tolstoy couldn't tame that.
Falling out. Short cuts.
I'll reminisce. A thistle-down breeze.
"I do," I said, "I do".
Don't Make
Good
Insist on
identity. Short-memory.
You're a serpent's fizzle
crunched into a bagpipe,
out-of-whack
in the realm
of the dismal.
I swell. Your gist's at finger-ends.
Fidelity? Shoulders taken aback.
I'll dodge along
with anyone.
