Two Eves

There were two Eves in that

steamy bathroom: the one he

knew well, smiling bashfully

as though her nudity was news,

not endlessly retweeted in his head;

the other, behind the

frosted glass, danced like

Salome under seven veils of spray,

seductive, erotic, intent on

having his head

explode.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Mostly Wet

Was she a narcissist, she wondered as she

pressed “Send” : desperate perhaps?

A ‘pleaser’? Above her head a photo of her

newly depilated vagina was being

pestled into a paste of ones and zeroes,

thrown bodily into the sky,

bounced off some space-soiled satellite,

sieved, the pixels repurposed as her

pudenda on the laptop screen of a

man she’d never met, might

never meet, and while she felt

ashamed, like the world that image

circumnavigated, she found herself

mostly wet.

Restraint

She showed restraint in her

choice of birthday gifts, knew

he would show restraint, using

her proffered body,

naked but for the

leather straps about her

wrists and ankles, the

thick leather collar about her

graceful, fragile neck.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Night-Scented

She’s gone when I awake leaving

her perfume on my pillow, the

impress of her lips on mine, the

tang of her on my taste-buds and,

neatly tied about each wrist, her

night-scented stockings.

Rasp

I miss the 
rasp of

dry lips

the shiver of

fingers in hair

holding that

kiss tight.

Naiad to Dryad

Water suited her,

cleaved for her,

ran off her as,

barefoot on oakleaves, the

air transmuted her from

Naiad to Dryad.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Lightning

Lightning lit your mouth

slowly working me, flashes

silhouetting the Mendips, your

lips, tongue, hands, eyes

coaxing my deluge just as the

rain battered Bristol and

all its surroundings.

Hope Street

The back of a taxi

late at night:

zig-zag of street-lights

strobe the stutter of

shy fingers seeking a

hand to hold them.

Choice

She chose to be naked:

she chose the implements;

she chose to bend over;

chose to be bound, offering her

wrists behind her back; she

chose to accept the breath-bit

beating of her bottom and his

rough intrusion into her

ready sex, as she chose to

open her mouth to

accede to his seed because it was

her choice, not his.

Why You Shouldn't Marry Your Muse

“You know Renoir

painted with his prick?”

My loaded brush dripped as my

startled eye jerked from canvas

up past her artfully cocked hip

to her loaded eyes, seeing

Impatience on a Monument,

demanding I put my

prick to its proper purpose.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

.......After

The door clicked quietly closed,

footsteps diminuendo, the vague

tweak of a fob, car coughing,

descending into silence.

They had feared the easy slide of

marital to martial, the

sour smell of jealousy, cock-feathers

flying in her hen-house.

Lying there, smeared, exhausted,

she sought and caught his hand,

his kiss, his sweaty embrace and

wanted more instead.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

Before......

I sensed your tension,

felt it through every tendon from your

arched feet to your

knitted fingers to your

nipples, pinked, erect on

goosebumped breasts, you

startling each time a

car came up that hill,

wondering which one would

stop and disgorge the man who might

forever mar their marriage.

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)

The Table in the Corner

                           

      The Maitre D’ always kept that

      table by the window, screened by greenery,

      free each Friday for them to

      kick back after their long week apart,

      marooned in the world of work, their mutual

      love and lust kept bubbling with

      texts, selfies, words whispered,

      promises of acts performed once their

      other appetites were sated, their

      waiter often aroused by the bouquet of

      panties passed from pussy to pocket, a

      glimpse of nipple, the business of

      hands and feet in their

      not-so-subtle struggle to

      keep the table firmly between them.

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am indebted and whom you should visit)

Hook-Up

She thought there was no access to
her heart through any of her
external orifices:
he thought he preferred  bare
ear-lobes, nipples, labia, to a
mouthful of metal;
she thought middle-aged men eyed her
askance, only to
ogle her arse as she walked on;
he thought tattoos a turn-off, the
smell of future regret trailing in the
dirt like a fake fur-coat;
she thought her soul was a stone, each
rough fuck a chip destined one day to
leave her polished smooth;
he thought his life was over when his
wife left him, finally
dissillusioned with dust;
she thought a bar tempting;
he thought it a place of despair.

The bar-tender thought he’d seen
odder couples, stranger pairings, even
ordinary folk who came in and found
how wrong they could be.