Tent

This tent is my house,

warm and welcoming to

those whom I

love with all my heart.

When someone leaves the tent

there is a cold draught that

chills us all, causing us to

cleave closer together.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com  and Holden-and-Camille.Tumblr.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)

Tension

Don't make me wait as the
sun's stripes whip me from
throat to thigh as I
kneel here wet so
don't make me wait.

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com  and Holden-and Camille.Tumblr.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)

Make-Up Remover II

I wake without make-up

panicked in a strange bed

dawn always making me look

drawn and I’m torn between

ringing my husband to

arrange a pick-up or

finding my make-up in the

wreakage of a good night

repainting to wake the

dark shape next to me with a

red ring round his penis when his

face looms over mine murmuring

“Morning beautiful” and

commences a kiss that makes me

forget all the aforementioned and

most else besides.

Make-Up Remover

The face you wore tonight is now

smeared on my sheets, my

pillow, my face, and your

parloured hair is decidedly

unkempt, your sleepy eyes

between locks accepting this

new openness, this

new nakedness.

Selfie in Context

I didn’t just want you to see me

near-naked but see me in context:

high above burnt-out docks,

amidst the sort of

uncomfortable furniture you used to

bruise my body on,

taking me as I take this,

each act lost in the

burnt-out sky

without context.

(For LHSC)

Hotel Sheets

Even within the

crisp, clean

hotel sheets I

couldn’t rest, my

insistent erection

unconsoled by my hand, my

mind full of images of

unconsoled women.

The alarm startled me,

twisted in sodden sheets,

still erect, thinking of

when you used to know

what to do with that.

Elusive Skirt

She hardly needed to be quiet as he

slept like someone satisfied,

as so he should be but

nevertheless she tiptoed

searching for her scattered clothes,

closed the bathroom door with a

delicate click, studied herself under the

harsh light: the marks he’d made

were raw but would fade.

She stole a fingerful of his

toothpaste to abate his taste,

dressed in haste, needing the

coffee her husband would have brewed,

careful her dangling shoes didn’t

bang the doorframe whilst she

scanned once more that

scuzzy floor for her

elusive skirt.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com  and Holden-and Camille.Tumblr.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)

Showers

Whilst she showered off their

commingled effusions, he preferred the

short, sharp shock of cold rain, but

something in the woodland tang of

pine, wild honeysuckle, the

unkempt rosemary, thyme,

love-in-idleness, roses

dripping attar, the distant

smoke of burning applewood and

something distinctly feral, in

heat somewhere, reminded him that

he had a woman within who could

never be satisfied but it was his

sworn duty to try.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com  and Holden-and Camille.tumblr.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)

Dating Sights

“Send me a picture of your pussy”,

he messaged, so she

made him a movie of her

rouged CSL’s saying “Sadly, my

cat won’t cooperate and so

from now on these lips are

sealed”.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com, and also Holden-and Camille.Tumblr.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)

Grip

His too-long absence made his

grip too tight—

tears of fabric,

tears in eyes, her

pulse a tattoo of

desire, choked,

condensed.

 

(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)

Stripes

She knew she was often bad,

knew too that he would

never harm her, so sometimes

she would kneel in the sun and

imagine what his

stripes would feel like across

her bare back.

 

(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)

As he left her

We met awkwardly in the

narrow hallway between the

bedrooms, two naked men unsure

how to greet, his dick still dripping, mine

ringed with the red lipstick

reapplied by his wife to

wake me up.

“Breakfast! Half an hour?”

“Great!” With a nod we parted to

reclaim our wives, and

pushing open our bedroom door,

pushing through the scent of recent sex,

I found her as he left her,

replete and wet.

 

(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 Importance of Good Furniture

The tallboy caught a shaft of

sunlight in the shop and I

knew immediately it would be

perfect placed between the

two bright windows of my bedroom

and I had just the mirror to

put above it in which we

both could see your face

purpling in passion, the

height just right so that

without your heels you were

forced onto tiptoe to get the

depth you desired, your

breath misting the image, your

flailing hair sweeping it clear.

Down

 

 

You bit your lip whilst I

carefully shaved your pubis,

your eyes dancing between

fear and lust, wanting to be

bare for me but

unaware how the

slanting sunshine

lit with fire the

fine down that

everywhere adorned your

beautiful body.

 

(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)