Muse. Chapbook. Erotic poetry scripts and poems.

    cat woman

     

    a poison green dystopian sign

    mounted on a modernist crime

    tells me, should I be lost

    I’m in Zentrum Kreuzberg

     

    cat woman gave me a purr

    invited me up wrought iron stairs

    to some back street tenement

    with dog kennel rooms

     

    in a chamber of permanent night

    metronome plumbing dripped

    granulated forms glided

    across granulated walls

     

    she curled and purred and scratched

    the spread of her hips

    her pubic mound in cherry motif pants

    the smooth curve of her breasts

     

    her feral cats arched their backs

    rasped their claws and wove

    a spell around her ankles

    until her smile turned feline

     

    the shape of her mouth

    kissed into a promise

    her musky breath, stupifies

    dissolves your resistance

     

    she’ll scratch you for your cream

    later she will serve it up

    in coffee with pfeffernusse

    and fingers that smell of sex

     

    Explaining Women & Other Nonsense. Chapbook. Poetry.

    Rebecca

     

    she was sat upon a suburban garden wall

    a wholesome girl selling unwholesome thoughts

    nature gives a man little choice in this

    he can raise his behaviour to a higher level

    but his imagination remains firmly in the gutter

     

    I heard her speak before she spoke

    educated, home counties, fully formed vowels

    no thees and thas or wat’s thy on abowts

    the sort of girl a mother hopes her son brings home

    someone who could give her boasting rights

     

    with hands on hips, in haughty pose 

    splendid breasts and her pelvis thrust

    presenting herself as she might for a lover

    no mother would want this for her son 

    but every son would want this wildest dream 

     

    she’s sex, with Wittgenstein on her side

    she has diplomas to prove it and a head full of ideas

    a mind that is sharp as a blade and a tongue

    with whimsical convolutions that put you at ease

    then you’re sliced and diced, in the nicest possible way

     

    so what a man gets is not what the man sees

    the delicate damsel in need of his protection

    is tough as a nut, hustling from job to job

    clear eyed and sharply focused, she pitches

    confident in the quality of her goods

     

    but you remain a sucker for her charms

    the thought, if there were less years between

    if somehow youth had not been betrayed by age

    still, you have her photo and thoughts of what might have been

    if only the fates and chronology, had been on your side

    The Dead Centre Of The Universe

    old fart

     

    bottles stand in rows, like a shooting gallery

    ceiling high they resemble church organ pipes

    bars are churches, you attend to contemplate

    or commune with friends and celebrate life

    or like me, simply to make human contact

    over a beer, another word for holy water

     

    not that I ever attended church, though

    I once attended midnight mass on a promise

    a Christmas gift wrapped in Chelsea Girl underwear

    I endured the drone of tinnitus dirge and voice

    the suppressed excitement in my pants

    threatened to explode in a blasphemous rage

     

    I’m older now, less well maintained, on the slide

    those urgent needs are not so urgent now, anyway

    girls in Chelsea Girl underwear don’t promise anymore

    so I sit in the chiaroscuro light of Café De Spoek

    the mirror behind the bar being all too honest

    I’m an old fart doing an old fart thing

     

    I sip my beer and dither, to talk or not to talk

    interrupt someone’s brooding depression

    impose my genius wit on their dull existence

    I could put their world to rights, council them

    tell them where their life went wrong

    alcoholic advice from an out of control life

     

    the myriad brand labels on endless bottles

    life is not long enough to appreciate such efforts

    but I’m at a stage in life where experimenting kills

    like sex, it’s appreciated but can the heart take it

    adventure is another beer, it used to be smoke too

    but death loiters with intent, a mugger in the shadows