Sunday, 29 March 2015


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.

Saturday, 21 March 2015

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 to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)