Friday, 25 January 2019

Hand Of Fate

Hand of Fate

Hand of fate, kissing off the breeze,
strokes his nape and none were saved,
no, none were saved, him lying on mustard bed,
he grasps my hand, he coughs my dread.
Screws up his liver, now twists his spleen,
twists and shouts strange visions seen,
 twists his spleen when her poison came,
he coughs in bed; utters up love's name,
smiles his last smile and she is to blame.
Oh, hand of fate, yes, she is to blame.
Yes, hand of fate kisses only shame,
kiss shame’s sins when the chopper came,
the chopper came, blunt clubbed my head,
chunked my head, now I’m running fast,
for sweet betrayal was made to last,
constructed good and constructed vast,
caverned deep inside but just too late,
she smiles, she speaks, oh that hand of fate.
Hand of fate comes close with lying lips,
she speaks of love’s hands sleights to trick,
she speaks in silver of a rose that pricks,
sweet rose that pricks inside, and sick
conjuring spells of bitter poison sweet,
we’re not to know when first we meet:
undo your cups and tender make me eat.
Make me eat, yes, make me softly plead,
rubbed raw your knees under leafy trees,
open mouth, expose and you milky tease.
You tease me there until my will must break,
torment with promise of the hand of fate.
Oh, hand of fate, will she bring disease?
One day, certain, beneath dropping leaves,
beneath the leaves, play tunes with your mouth,
play moaning tunes, bring rain not drought,
show me the heat of your sticky tongue
when I twist me round your summer sun
 swimming strokes within musk dusky flavour
screaming, oh choky sobs, don't stop, ignore,
ignore her autumn taps upon the door,
her autumn taps and bleak winter sighs,
they speak of snow and bring the lies,
oh, bitter lies that must bar the gate
must bring the Angel and the hand of fate. 

Friday, 18 January 2019

Hot Stuff

Hot Stuff

When love was only very young
we sipped hot soup that scalds the tongue
we barely know how so which we feel
or what in truth it will reveal

we’d kissed the boys who kissed the girls
that run our fingers through your curls
from deep within fire snatch fiery sticks
shall flickering blow on embered tips

we twirl the sparklers of our eyes
grip patterns fast before they die
fading bright they indelible weave
our midnight hearts with sorrow leave

spit on scalding iron and it hisses
remind you both of budding kisses
blisters once the yearning builds
pounding pulse be not never stilled

darling dreams of what could be
burn to think of what we’ll see
tremble fingers on sticky lingers
gasp for air to breathe sighing cinders

scorch your mouth on chocolate sweet
slow build our thud thumping beat
we strike the match then brief touch tip
undo the clasp and pull the zip

when love was only very young
cups boil over eager and begun
lying back still lie can’t get enough
ah yes - but oh, that hot hot stuff.

Thursday, 17 January 2019

And What Would I Do, I Would Do.

And What Would I Do, I Would Do.

And should I shed a tear,
which I never think I would
given that being here is borderline good,
and, you know,
just alright, all things considered,
due to being delivered from approximate evil:
Well, always she breathes elbow near,
brings another just one more beer
then and now, misty moist Luisa, dearest
woman, far flung and nearest.
So, now and then we plan
in my head.
Not catch as catch can,
because she’s not that kind of man,
even if I sometimes am,
and, well, such things are haram
in any case.
Nor any sort of snog and chase
allowed in this place,
no kiss, cuddle or torture,
why, such things are just begging
for strict punishment
should you wish her on your knee
to run fingers through her hair,
or even over them:
well that’s plain wrong,
because she’s gone somewhere,
to sing soft melodic song,
of lashes long,
of yearnings strong,
of eyes so brown they’d melt her
like cheese into toast
 bubbles brown
then froths foaming swelter.
 Hostess smile sun burn their shoulders
of those sitting phonebound,
who smoulder in shame
silent stuck in sand, not truly here:
But, look up quick now
and rouse us,
for she brings rain that quenches,
washes, soaks and drenches,
pinches flesh, shakes us awake,
calling me back from memories raked
when or if the heart begins to ache.
Should I shed a tear.

Friday, 11 January 2019

Judy Do

Judy Do

Judy do plenty her face book total blocker

what’s app, cock? Five-year famine shocker

headline news fit to skinny print, page three

kicker, this is me tied fast to legally blinded tree

well, she got no truck with something like that.

Shucks, explain how you feel and she slap hard

on and move fast, nothing doing, going down

banana peeling feel her grip harder, Judy smile

when she putting those hard-heart moves on you.

Turn toss hoopla her lion tamer whiplash eyeline, 

cable zipline, grip fine, take time, flex flash.

No twenty-flight rock hard ten meter dash for the line,

Judy moan, Judy whine, Judy dine. Oh, she dines.

Eating crimes, plenty, she take-taste salty brine,

she lunch amply on icky sticky splash.

Judy needs some soft sell shell suit shocker,

she greedy swallow, she birch, she cane swishy,

use curt cut cuffs to toss it off in locker

suck sherbet lemons, licking fishy, little dishy,

whip you up, lather taser grinding her choker. Joker

told you that when you knew it’s what Judy do.

Down on her knees soft blow, breathe on fire.

I’m no good for Judy, she says:

her chest play heave them higher

though she don’t know what we’re missing

she bleed, she bite, instead we should be kissing

filthy, eiderdown, quilted wet heat there and flirty

hands symphony beneath split creases, spill

as lift doors conductor shut, guillotine kill

until tomorrow, friend, Judy do us deep down dirty.