I love myself,
I truly do,
I just really think
It’s about time somebody else did too.
(c) words and images the original work of the author and may not be reproduced without permission
You are not the Messiah,
You are a very naughty boy,
A narcissist,
A liar,
And I am not your toy,
Though you stand there like a bath tub baptist,
With the moves you’ve practiced,
Ready to sponge off my sin,
Maybe find a way in,
Feeling like you’ve cracked it,
Lies and manipulation
Are your favourite forms of masturbation,
You researched my needs
To fund your greed,
And you will not win,
I’m really not that dim
This water is not holy
And you won’t control me,
Robed on malice,
A poison chalice
And the body of Christ
That made me think twice-
Standing there like a bath tub baptist,
With the moves you’ve practised.
Words and images are the original work of the author and may not be reproduced without pernission.
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.
‘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
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.
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.
All images and words are the original work of the author and must not be reproduced without permission.
Stained with love
Like iodine before surgery,
Only you don’t just cut –
You open-heart murder me
And leave me on the table
Like a modern day fable:
Bleeding.
The moral of the tale being:
Emotional dismemberment is often fatal.
All words and images are the original work of the author and must not be reproduced without their permission.
