Seduction without Reduction

So, you think you want a ‘stocking and suspenders’ kind of girl?

I’ll give you a twirl and rock your world,

Lick my lips slowly – no not for that,

I’m warming up for intellectual combat –

You better be packing some long, hot words –

In this case size really does matter,

I need to know that you’ve got the patter

Those pastiches of lust are just absurd –

Ugly bits of nylon , compared to the word –

Words are more seductive,

Words are less reductive

Rolling smoothly off the tongue,

A delight to be heard.

 

Ideas can wriggle behind feathers and fans,

Titillating – little by little -things to expand

Your mind,

A burlesque of a different kind,

A burlesque where you might just find

Yourself craving more of the mysteries,

The little-known histories

Coyly revealed from behind the feather –

You’ll feel ill at ease,

Confused by the tease,

At the end of your tether…

At a loss for why it’s more engrossing,

Than those cheap bits of clothing

But you’ll never

Forget this psychological striptease.

All words and images are the original work of the writer and may not be reproduced without their permission.

bad baboushka

Thank God It Wasn’t a Child

‘Thank God it wasn’t a child’

Seems to be able to be applied

To almost anything

To lessen

The impact of doom:

‘The votes are in – we have a new Prime Minister.’

‘Thank God it wasn’t a child!’ the public cried!

For all the difference it will make –

Still, it eased a nation’s heartache

And made a nice accompaniment

For the tea and cake.

 

All words and images are the original work of the writer and ay not be reproduced without permission

child

Groomed for Gunshots

Regimented robots

Groomed for gunshots

Not at all acceptable

To reject a less delectable

Dish if the orders were given

And the food had been served –

Don’t be absurd!

But the revolting slop refused to comply,

Stuck in your throat like a lie –

It wouldn’t obey,

Couldn’t be swallowed in any kind of way –

13:00 hrs – little robot thinks it will die

But won’t dare protest’

It’ll just have to digest

In the preordained manner

Dictated by the captor –

The lunchtime supervisor…

Gastric brutaliser.

 

Little robot usually did well

Knew the drill for the lunch bell,

Knew how many times to chew

To avoid being hit by the spoon,

But this culinary horror

Was causing some bother,

And though the little robot hated to admit,

It really was about to vomit,

Its eyes were secreting distress;

Its stomach about to violently confess-

It wouldn’t suppress,

Nothing would make it acquiesce

To this one last request.

 

Then from nowhere

The jug tipped over,

And the lunchtime supervisor

(Gastric brutaliser)

Was momentarily distracted by mopping,

So the little robot’s sobbing

Could be brought to an end,

With the secret swapping of the plate with a friend’s,

Who would make the ultimate sacrifice,

And eat the dish twice.

 

Good little robots,

Groomed for gunshots.

All words and images are the original work of the author and may not be reproduced without their permission.

little robots

 

Bits

Wherever she went she left bits of her life behind her –

Not surprising to anyone who knew her

(And frequently chased after her with her forgotten keys, phone, coat)

That scattered round and about were her memories,

For what was the use of keeping them with her?

Bound about her like a tefillin,

Keeping the commandments of pain wrapped in?

What does it matter if that argument got lost on a train?

Or that heart-wrenching loss got washed, by tears, down a drain?

Anywhere will do that isn’t the brain.

Wherever she went she left bits of her life behind her,

Not  really a surprise to anyone who knew her

(And sometimes picked up after her how she felt lonely)

That scattered round and about was her past –

It didn’t matter though – it didn’t last.

Throwing stones had shattered the glass

But it couldn’t catch her if she never fled

And it couldn’t hurt her if she never bled.

 

bits1

All images and words are the original work of the author and must not be reproduced without permission.

 

 

Mourning Wood

15740772_10155578337660752_342470346012835228_n

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

He scans the bereaved for available gashes,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

Grief itself inflames his lust,

Black is such a slimming colour –

How’s your father? (And your mother?)

Tears lend such a delicate hue,

(Come now, this day’s about you)

‘She’s laid on the wake and made me a sandwich,

Surely that’s licence to make her my bitch?’

The pain on her face lends a peculiar grace,

Silent permission to give an embrace.

Was he very close to the deceased?

Not at all – just there to get her on her knees.

(Come, now – don’t play hard to get,

He knows a way that’ll make you forget)

Oh, it’s sad that you’ve lost your spouse

But honestly speaking, aren’t you a little aroused?

He’s there to fill the hole that’s been left,

To observe the ritual and her breasts –

They’ve laid her husband to rest in his plot, Now he’s straining to rest in that slot.

Death becomes her, it has to be said, He’s not resting ’til he gets her to bed,

He’s intoxicated by the scent of death in the air,

As he gently strokes her face and her hair,

(There, now – doesn’t that feel nice?)

He’s determined to please her once if not twice,

‘Don’t worry about what they may say,

Your husband has gone and is in his grave’

She leans in to him and it feels so good

As he leans into her

With his mourning wood.

halloweengravesbest

 

Words and images (c) of the original artist 2015 and may not be reproduced without permission

Done

DSCF5041

No delicate brush

Met my palette of poetry

Fingers dug

And flung

Straight at the canvas

Creativity ravenous

To be done and hung

With a plaque reading ‘Raw’

Perhaps somewhere near the door

Where my family

And others too poor

To pay the entry

And mingle with the gentry

Could see.

Words and images (c) of the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission 2015