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