Girls of Slender Legs

Driving home through the shoals of

long-legged foals took me back to

less puritanical times, to

Liverpool in the 70’s when

“schoolies” were fair game, with their

skirts rolled up, their

satchels and sarcasm, their

white socks and dark hearts, so

ready to be led astray they

often gave you a roadmap,

driving you on with their

slender legs around your waist, their

school-shod heels urging more,

deeper, faster, longer, in the

language of Chaucer with a

Scouse accent.

Anthropocene

We expect your throat to be capacious but

choke on our toothbrushes: expect

contortions when our

bones creak; expect a

waxed vagina to host a

hirsute pubis.

We wrap up warmly yet still

expect you en déshabille, or

dressed like sluts to complement our

designer suits, our jewels snug in

comfy boxers whilst your waist is

cinched to wincing in that corset we

thoughtfully bought you.

You must of course be sweet smelling and

spotlessly clean, both

inside and out, while we

muss your hair when we

pull your immaculate face into our

misguided idea of hygiene.

So why, after all these millennia, haven’t you

changed us? Don’t tell me that

somewhere beneath that

civilised veneer, there is a

secret hankering for a

caveman?

Suit

There are stains on my suit,

about the fly, where you

rubbed your desire and for which

you will be punished.

But the suit will be cleaned

so that it might be

soiled again by your

wet splendour.