Maestro: E’s are Good

A paragraph-length poem, in which you are only permitted to use a single vowel of your choice:

We regret
He needs egress
He expressed
The term negress

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#Poem – The Married Bachelor

A romantic poem for Valentine’s Day.

If it’s not too much trouble.
If it wouldn’t put you out.
If it’s not too much to ask.
If you’re free of nagging doubts.
If the kids are at your parents.
If your mother doesn’t stay.
If the cat doesn’t interrupt.
If you’ve had a good day.
If I haven’t eaten garlic.
If neither of us ate chilli.
If the mood takes you.
If I wash my willy.
If I ask you nicely.
If I ply you with romance.
If I get forms signed in triplicate.
If I don’t rip your pants.
If there’s nothing on TV.
If there’s nothing on Netflix.
If you’re feeling healthy.
If you’re not feeling sick.
If you’re not intent on reading.
If you’re caught up on Facebook.
If the bed’s not too cold.
If I give you ‘the look’.
If you don’t have to be up early.
If the shower isn’t blocked.
If the Moon is in the seventh house.
If the door is locked.
If the stars are right, up in the sky.
If the dreamer wakes.
If pigs have learned a way to fly.
If there are no earthquakes.
If the house does not catch fire.
If it doesn’t flood.
If the sheets are clean and fresh.
If it’s not the Time of Blood.

Then, oh my beloved.
May I pencil you in?
For 15 minutes, in 6 months.
Of horizontal sin?

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The Big Nob Blues

Ladies and gentleman, put your hands together for Tallywhacker Johnson and Penelope Cooze!

*Applause, which slowly dies down as they begin to play The Blues*

Can’t buy me a rubber. Not one that’ll fit.
Maybe if I’m lucky I can finish on her tits.
Oh yeah. I got them big nob blues. Whoa-oh.
Ain’t talkin’ ’bout my balls, oh no.
Talkin big nob blues.

I love my man. I love him of course.
But to take all of those inches I would have to be a horse. 
Oh yeah. I got me them tight cooch blues.
Ain’t havin’ none of that, oh no.
Talkin’ tight cooch blues.

Ya think this is funny, laughin’ at my size.
You wouldn’t find it funny if your helmet bruised your thighs.
Oh yeah. I got them big nob blues. Whoa-oh.
Ain’t talkin’ ’bout my balls, oh no (though, Lord they ache).
Talkin’ big nob blues.

I dropped me some kids, I birthed them with ease.
But don’t come near me with that, oh lord Jesus hear my pleas!
Oh yeah, I got me them tight cooch blues.
Ain’t stickin’ that in me, oh no.
Talkin’ tight cooch blues.

In my desperation, I tried out for a porn.
To get me out took a caesarian and now the poor girl’s torn.
Oh year. I got them big nob blues. Oh Lord.
Cut me down to size please doc.
Talkin’ big nob blues.

My mouth it aches. My hands are fried.
Don’t mention anal because that ain’t ever bein’ tried.
Oh yeah, I got me them tight cooch blues.
Done never bothered with a kegel, oh no.
Talkin’ tight cooch blues.

Every night it’s the same, I have a wet dream.
I’d fold my sheets but they’d shatter before they’re clean.
Oh yeah, I got them big nob blues – no satisfaction!
Ain’t talkin’ ’bout my balls – though they’re blue.
Talkin’ big nob blues.

*Together*
Ain’t talkin’ bout his balls, oh no.
We got them big/tight nob/cooch blues.

*Jangly guitars*

*Applause*

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Male Socialisation

A response to Gia

He’s so handsome.

What a grip!

You’re so big.

You’re my little man.

Tough little guy.

Hey! Don’t cry!

Don’t hit girls.

Why are you picking flowers?

Slow down.

Be a man.

Finish your plate.

Shut up.
Stop running.

Boys smell.

Boys are stupid.

You’re too rough to play with girls.

Hahahahaha! You have a stiffy!

Look at his crotch!

Stiffy!

Stiffy!

Stiffy!

Stiffy!

Ewww, wet dreams are disgusting.

You’re a creep.

Stop looking at girls.

Stiffy!

Jesus, what have you been feeding it?

I touched it!

Disgusting.

Gross.

Creep.

You’re gross.

Peeping tom.

Let me touch it.

Pervert.

I only want to touch it.

He’s a stalker.

He’s a creep.

He’s a pervert.

Rapist.

Pervert.

Touch me.
Don’t touch me.

Look at that bulge!

Pervert.

Creep.

You only want one thing.

Take me.

Get off me.

Yes.

No.

Stop.

Why did you stop?

Don’t you want me?

Give it to me.

Be strong.

Take charge.

Pervert.

Not like that.

You’re all the same.

You’re all perverts.

Why do you want to work with kids?

But this is a woman’s job.

Women won’t trust you here.

We have to check your background.

We have to double check your background.

We have to be sure you’re not a paedo.

The parents wouldn’t like you working here.

Wouldn’t you be happier working somewhere else?

You’re making the women uncomfortable.

Could you be more circumspect.

We’re going to the coffee shop. Do you want anything?

Can you work extra hours?

Can you work weekends?

She can take care of the kids, right?

We could use the extra money…

Don’t stand so close.

She quickens her step to get away.

She hurries at the cash point.

She shies away when you say hello.

Pervert.

Creep.

Misogynist.

Let’s be friends.

This was a mistake.

I love you… as a friend.

It’s not you, it’s me.

Your sexuality intimidates me.

You’re too demanding.

All you’re interested in, is sex.

I’m sorry I cheated on you.

I just need more financial security.

I don’t want kids.

I don’t need a man in my life right now.

Ever.

You’re a bully.

You’re overconfident.

You’re intimidating.

Pervert.

You’re too calm.

You’re too rational.

That isn’t funny.

I’m serious.

I don’t care what you think.

I don’t want to fuck you.

Stiffy.

You dress like a teenager.

You look ridiculous.

Put a suit on.

Wear a tie.

Cut your hair.

Shave.

You’re getting fat.

Tidy up.

Put your junk in storage.

That’s not funny.

You’re so insensitive.

I have a headache.

I’m not in the mood.

It’s a school night.

They’ll hear us.

It’s too late.

Stop asking.

Why did you stop asking?

You’re pressuring me.

You stopped trying.

Why haven’t you fixed it?

Can you get more overtime?

You’re home late, can you…?

We need that money for essentials.

I make more than you now.

That’s my money.

You’re going grey.

You’re getting old.

You’re getting fat.

You don’t spend enough time with me.

You’re always working.

We need more money.

Why do you read this shit?

Why do you buy this shit?

You’re still like a child.

I don’t see the appeal of these games.

You never grew up.

Perpetual teenager.

Grow up.

Why don’t you join a gym?

Balding.

Grey.

Dirty old man.

Pervert.

Don’t you have any hobbies?

Let’s go see my sister.

But you don’t have any friends.

Dirty.

Old.

Man.

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Poem: British Summer

a blink of sunshine and out he comes
sunburned belly, shoulders, bum
he marches to the mowers thrum
it’s a british summer

ear-splitting screeches, kids at play
take your dog and get it spayed
socks and sandals every day
it’s a british summer

prayers for autumn, comes to nought
wasps drank all the booze we bought
dodging showers is a sport
it’s a british summer

spend most of it in the pub
dining on reheated grub
give those nettle stings a rub
it’s a british summer

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Crackt

I have a dream.

In which I have a hammer.

I use the hammer upon my hand.

So that I have a valid excuse not to write this.

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One Bite of the Apple

Sulphur no longer smells rotten to her. It is a perfume now, it calls to her, summons her down the cold concrete steps to the basement. A bright light would spoil the atmosphere, a single bulb is all she allows, low-watt and fly speckled, it makes more shadows than it banishes.

Her feet slap upon the steps, one by one, the silken robe whispering as it slinks after her as though ashamed, caught in her wake. There is a groan, deep and masculine from the deepest of the shadows and she smiles as she reaches the last step, exalting in a sense of her power.

The silk slips from her shoulders and, naked, she gleams in the little light there is. Pale and glorious, standing erect, chin tilted up toward the light. It makes no difference but she’ll show no weakness to her quarry. She melts to her knees and prowls forward across the icy hardness of the dim and dusty floor. Hardened wax crackles and flakes from the floor as her hand brushes it and old lines of chalk and blood are smeared.

It matters not.

‘How male,’ she thinks. ‘How narrow and focussed to desire a thing only for its appearance. To be a woman,’ she muses to herself, ‘is to contain a multitude. To be able to desire for strength or looks, for intelligence, for power, for any and all qualities there are to desire.’

Yellow, cat-slit eyes in the darkness blink and a taloned foot scrapes the floor as it withdraws. She prowls forward, in pursuit, on her hands and knees. Her breasts sway and every movement echoes in her belly, lighting a fire in her dark-ringed eyes.

There’s nowhere further it can go. This dangerous thing, this thing of power, this force she has trapped and bound and made her own.

It shows its teeth, but she knows it cannot bite.

It raises its claws, but she knows it cannot scratch.

It speaks threats and promises, glories and terrors, but she knows it lies.

Its skin, under her fingers is as warm as a too-hot bath, it makes her flush, it makes her faint.

Long nails draw down a scarlet, squamous chest, tick-tick-ticking from scale to scale, until her hands grasp the root of its mockery of maleness and its forked tongue stills.

For she knows its name, and calls it ‘beast’.

 

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An Anagram of Lust

Stinking, sweat-slick, redolent of sex.
Lost beneath the cotton waves of my shirt.
Unselfconsciously languid.
Tousled, tired, tear-stained.

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Vulgagrad

In Vulgagrad grey, concrete erections pierce an indifferent sky with the grace and favour of a fumbled, genital Polaroid.

In Vulgagrad Maoist strippers tear leaves from the trees in nothing but Little-Red Boots and peasant caps.

In Vulgagrad everyone is equal. Fat or thin, tall or short, black or white, male or female. To refuse a touch, a kiss, an advance is counter-revolutionary.

In Vulgagrad a red star peeks from between the slab-sided grey buttocks of the Stalinist housing blocks.

In Vulgagrad they fuck like they’re in the posters. Fists, boots, patriotism and determined expressions – a great patriotic bore.

In Vulgagrad they’re hot to Trotsky so quit Stalin and get read for the orgy. On your Marx, get set, go.

In Vulgagrad the apparatchiks are politically orthodicks and orthochicks with aspirations to the nomenklatura and tastes as rare and strange as Caspian beluga.

In Vulgagad the kommisars will watch your every move, even that special one that makes you lover squirm – seeking any hint of creeping capitalism as ‘payment in kind’.

In Vulgagrad, jewel of Kamchatka, where Working-Girl Camps jostle with Dacha and a priapic Lenin stands watch over the revolution.

In Vulgagrad.

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Mimsy Burogrove – Psychedelic Detective UNLEASHED!

Drivethrufiction

Lulu

Amazon

Smashwords

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