Explaining women

A collection of poems are based on a mixture of fact, fiction, memory, gossip and myth. Where reality ends and the imagination begins? Kow towing to political correctness has no place in this collection, a rake's progress of poems.

explaining women (excerpt)

J, with collar up, like a character out of The Third Man

arrived incognito, cigarettes, wine and a Leonard Cohen LP

she kissed the air, to communicate her corrupt intentions

the regal poise of a queen at court, she sat in an easy chair

her husband’s cheque book held with the authority of a sceptre

eager to squander the ground beneath his feet

redress his neglect of his treaty obligations

with a body half her age and underwear to match

an ability to quote Ovid, in context and in Latin (I asked)

she offered herself as tribute, in a game of marital chess

to be iconised, her vulva, an apple for the artist’s eye

her drama, tempting the snake in her adulterous game

there was no eunuch in this brothel, I studied her

someone else's concubine, insomeone else's harem

in the aquarium of diffused studio light, J posed

visions of neoclassical beauty, impressionist voluptuousness

mine were strictly utilitarian, open thighs directed my eye

sexual gravity, I was sucked in by the black hole of want

she may have considered her offer ripe for the plucking

I saw it as a fish mouth sucking its prey out of a shell

her Cleopatra's grip, firm as a brush in an artist’s hand

Japanese geishas were said to be skilled at such art

training and experience enabled her to grip the brush

full of ink, then she would squat, articulate her hips

draw a calligraphic line, reflect the art of moving in coition

J was impressed, there was something else he need not know 

secrets piled up over the years, like a rack of old canvases

some masterpieces, some best discarded

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