Wednesday, 30 April 2014

Making Spoons

My body pressed against your back,
Making spoons for hot water bottle warmth,
My aching ovaries against your kidneys,
My nose deep in your fur; I seem to lose track
Of the passage of time. A wealth
Of images flood my mind and I start the journey
Back to sleep, breathing in your personal smell,
River water, mud,
Something slightly eggy, and a petrochemical taint
From the flea drops, comforting, though unwell
Scent.  And your heart beats thump your pulsing blood
Against my stomach, and the faint
Egginess becomes more sulphuric,
And you begin your insatiable licking,
First the velvet bedspread, short rhythmic
Strokes, then my hand and forearm, seeking
Saltiness.  And I doze and seem to lack
The will to pull away.

Tuesday, 29 April 2014

The Consolations of Wikipedia

Today I've read de Beauvoir,
Hegel, Stirner, Spencer,
and decided on so many ways
of looking at the individual,
and said au revoir
to things greater and immenser,
like God and the state whose days
have always been numbered, but whose residual
traces until now remained as possibilities
inside my poor confused mind.
And now I feel that against all probabilities,
I have become what I always was,
the best version of my self.  The third state I find
is me, myself, my ego, but because
I am self effacing I had not hitherto
understood what I was, though in contradiction
I thought my ideas original, but there,
I am just a Spencerian,
radical feminist, egoist, but save your tears,
tomorrow I will read something more convincing,
or look again at Rousseau and read him without wincing.

Sunday, 13 April 2014

An Observation of a Crowd of Women - a Hen Night - Saturday Evening York

Vertiginous is the word most used
in reference to heels,
raising up the wearer
to Amazonian height.
These women, barer
than I would ever dare to be
on a hot August night,
on this chilly April evening, 6.15
working class, local, un-dressed in white,
not yet absolutely drunk, not staggering, confused,
still managing to teeter
along the narrow streets
weaving in between the bars,
colossal boobs in balconette bras,
trussed up, so as to elicit sighs.
Marvelous creatures from a seaside postcard,
buxom, confident, tarty and hard.
Haunches clad in Lycra, marbled, each splash
of colour appearing slapped on arses
curved and shapely; buns of steel,
with artistic and sculpturely appeal.
So many hens,
on the pull and on the lash.
Fake tan replacing tights, streaked on thighs,
whose muscularity,
visible all along the extra length,
weirdly reminiscent of masculinity,
emphasises squeezing, crushing strength.

Friday, 4 April 2014

After the Storm

Serenity inside my mind,
despite the traces left behind
of long and bitter argument,
egged on in self encouragement,
is rather odd, although I find
it's apt to last, as I unwind,
become quite dull and quite resigned;
a perfect, bland advertisement:
serenity inside!
Uncertainty, disparagement
of self, the groping, angry, blind
working towards settlement
is at an end. No more excitement;
I'm dull and boring, calm, refined:
serenity inside.

Tuesday, 1 April 2014

A New Breed of Narcissus

A brassy, gaudy trumpet glowing
neon orange for own blowing,
blasting out its self obsession,
tarted up and artificial,
built up body, bred for showing,
camping up its best impression
of a joyful thing of beauty,
on the verges municipal,
hanging round in crowds its duty.

In the parks beside the highway,
symbolic of our age in growing
louder, cruder, more demanding,
always seeking our attention,
ignorant of apprehension,
shyness isn't here,
you won't un-earth it,
self doubt?  No, just egoism,
me, my self, because I'm worth it,
artifice and brash invention,
really, why would people question
neo-narcissism.