First World Anguish

Someone I encountered:
tall, austere and somewhat gaunt,
stern and awkward, with a side of anger;
thin-souled, though woven from the threads
of everyday humanity

Words were disconnected.

They had been finely drawn –
perhaps by longing’s subtleties, 
perhaps by isolation’s anguish –
but certainly by fitting in (best efforts made)
while never in conformity

A lifetime.  Of all that. 

He was puzzled by another:
by someone else’s self-imposed constraints
that cut across her own interests (unvoiced), 
while all she saw of him – outlined –
was jagged spars and black rigging, tangled

Without apparent reason.

Your mirror

I thought I knew you, as a lover and a friend:

Your boldness and your complex fears,
Your mix of promiscuity and love; 
Your voice, your openness, your tolerance –
or your fixed and negative opinions

Your passions and your absences,
Your strength and physicality and grace;
Your focus on correctness –
even with a word or few too many

Your kindness and your plain speaking,
Your generous extravagance, sometimes; 
Your vital bonding with your son –
although not so much your daughter

Until today I learned, the world
is just a mirror for your eyes

Far Lady

Sheer desire!  Fine denier and vibrancy unbound;
blue eyes, smooth skin, on such a slender frame;
lithe and trans and femme, beyond the north horizon…

Long legs that stretch to heaven – or at least your groin:
your rampant shaft, your heavy balls, your peachy cheeks
and secret puckered rose, aching to be filled…

What would it take to touch you; bring you joy?
To undress you?  To reach you; satisfy your dreams? 
Even develop and enhance your mysteries?

Embers

The social wheel keeps turning: waxing is in vogue
so these are easy times to praise the smooth;
but we belong here too, we are human to the core…

Individuals.

We are different, even from the different:
a minority, scattered on the littoral
beyond the margins of the pale…

Incongruous?

Defiant in our pride, we flaunt our adult bodies:
our fineries, our primal coverings of hair,
as we dress to draw desire, in gorgeous lingerie…

Attraction!

During darker nights, my pelt will heat my blood
while restless dreams – of stroking yours, my dear –
fuel embers into flames; of lust, for nature’s way… 

Unveiled.

Too long in the sauna

A tart without a heart, worn dry, weighed down by drag;
who claims to be professional, but is bereft
of honesty, or any whore’s pretence.  A denizen
of sauna rooms, crawled briefly from the sleaze
that festers, nsa, among darker corners;
thinking that the light would help…

A slut who flaunts their shrivelled clit
and claims their arse is tight;  who talks and talks
of sex and pops, and throngs of sordid meets…
They look convincing at first pass – but artifice is thin:
that wilting skin is rough, the jaw too strong, their eyes hollow
like an excuse, a disappointment in a dress…

Complacency (part 2)

The olde worlde manne buffed up his puff
and spoke, mellifluously, but in a strangled voice
that whistled in his breath, through classic English teeth
not-quite-concealed below his baccy ‘tache…

“I voted to turn back the clock.  Ourselves alone,
the insular, in poverty, you know…   And now
I’m in the writers’ group!  We’re such a cosy clique
which meets together, every other week, 
to stroke ourselves, to pat each other on the cheek;
to share some jokes (that no-one else can know!)
and tell our friends how really, jolly nice we are…

“I know that strangers do take part, sometimes;
but I’ve devised a cunning plan! Haha!
It will be barratry (albeit smartly dressed):
we’ll hike the sub, we’ll bundle things
they never need or use, to make it plain
outsiders are not welcome here.
Three hundred percent!   That should do the trick!!  Haha!

And look here, don’t you fret your pretty heads: 
I know we once were 50, and now we’re only ten;
but why should that matter?!   Even if the bulkheads fail
and we should drift our ship aground, a wreck
will bring us respite, from creation’s toil and bite…
My dears!  Whatever might be wrong with that? 
It is the English way, you know.   Haha haha!”

Complacency (part 1)

The olde worlde manne buffed up his puff
and spoke, mellifluously, but in a strangled voice
that whistled in his breath, through classic English teeth
not-quite-concealed below his baccy ‘tache…

“You know, I marinade my ego in my creative juice
(as someone may have said, in 1922);
I am a captain in the upper middle class –
haute bourgeoisie, by way of Tuscany –
my social life’s in rugby, the way it used to be,
and I’m the colonel of my family, haha!
although I can’t see past my elbow or, you know…
What’s that you say?  The seat of my pants?  Is on fire?!

“I used to be at Lloyd’s, haha, back in the day,
the good old days, when insiders had all the luck
and outside Names would leave their shirts behind;
that’s back before the Yankees came, of course,
and corporates (they’re much the same)
with rules and plans and oversight, with outsiders
who knew the score, and counted beans;
and so that game was up. Though not before…

“Ah. But. I mustn’t tell you that.  Haha!
So I took refuge in the Clubs, where yesterday was still in place 
and if you closed one eye, and squinted hard enough,
you’d see the shade of dear old Vic:
the Empress’ portrait on the wall, gazing on her world,
presiding, impotent, bereft, decked in her widow’s weeds;
as good old chaps like me showed moneyed foreigners
how things were done round here.   Haha…

Let us consume each other

Her virtue has been easy, used
by her and others as a shortcut to a woman:
as she herself describes, with talent, craft and humour,
brought to bear on glorious debauchery;

The cover skills of artifice – nails and cosmetics,
heels and hosiery and lingerie, perfume –
each one has been applied with tender care
as temple gifts to raw and ravishing desire; 

In creating skin-deep beauty she portrays
the surface of a woman, dressed to please herself;
an illusion that reflects – to illustrate the fire,
the feminine, that burns and shines inside.

Hatfield

A new face, to me:  well-lived,
a face of character and sense;  enticing.
Lightly made up, highlighting those eyes
not so as to disguise her age,
drawing attention on the words
expanding in the air between us,
circling
above her pert and subtle breasts,
her slender build – and legs
I’d like to dive between,
to give and receive pleasure
in that always-human place ~

Sophistication

Sheer desire!  Fine denier and silk enticement;
brown eyes, smooth skin and such a slender frame;
a quixotic lady of the western horizons…

Long legs that stretch to heaven – or at least your groin:
your opening lips and rising pink, your peachy cheeks
and secret musky shaft, aching to be filled…

What would it take to reach you?
To undress you?  Satisfy you?  Unfold you?
To develop and enjoy your mysteries?