Friday, 2 January 2015


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.