The Saddest Taboo

Love and hate are not so very far apart…


Not now, not ever

Nor through gritted teeth

Clenched harder than titanium nails


I won’t grimace it out

Not even were he

The very last man on earth


He won’t get the satisfaction

Nor merest glimmer

Of the damn I do not give


I’ll batten down the hatches

Deaden that swelling ache

And suffocate any rebellious word


He will not see a trace of me

Behind the lace curtain

No spoor, nothing, nada


This secret and I shall die

Together, silent, unspoken

I’ll stich my lips so tight, binding


Not now, not ever…

The Twilight Echo

That subtle imprint,

The etch

The sketch of him


Never saw the germ

Sneak under my skin

That gentle djinn


No showers or spas

Might lather away

Those twilight echoes


Nor would I want


His eyes tattooed me

His soul embraced

And it soothed


To be understood

And held so,

Caressed in tears


That profound

The meaning

A sublime


And none but I

Can tell

Face Got in the Way

Oh you stupid face!!

What trouble you cause!!

If it weren’t for you

I could love


All your bloody rules

and stupid pride

they have me cornered,

helpless, quivering


Why won’t you let me?

My clenched teeth

pursed lips

and bags of tut-tut-tut


If I ripped you,

ripped you off,

might I at last

dance naked in the rain?

As I

as I trickle down her thighs

on the way to the bathroom


and the taste of her


on my tongue


to tell its story

of the moon


 and the lock–clasp-lock

of another day


eases the shoulders on the release



 this need in me


 in her


 as the pillow dent

lies warm for her



and the tom-tom savage in me

has now boiled


and the drawer

in her has opened


to soothe and to take

what she needs




in a moment

the pretence

of it


will hide

under the covers




in the snuggle

of our skin


now cooling in the night time air

and as raw as can be


and needing to touch


 much more



 than before


 the distant stars will meet

 and the tenderness

will again

 let us rest


until the next time


Pas de Deux



Perhaps he could

Be my master


If I choose to let him


And if…

….If he chose to take


Upon his shoulders


How much of me


….Do I have to



Is it just

The flower of me?


To let him inside

Deep inside


For I know

I will have a devil of a time

To re-move him from

My ribs


He scares me so





What is she up to?


With that gentle

Touch on my arm


And the hair

Tossed on the breeze

That hangs close

Enough to

Caress my face


And those questions

That, pull at me to answer

Dressed in the scent of




She wants me….

After all


Or does

She want me, to control?


To fetch and to carry

And service the nightly need



Why, can he not see?


Will he listen to me?

Listen like

That first time

As I shudder with release


Release and trust

That lets him



And parts me

In ways

That I have never parted before


As the careful

Tongue of his words

Probes me


And the tickling

Smile of challenge

Wets my lips

With the laughter in his eyes

And in mine


I feel thirteen again

And never yet been


Behind the bike sheds



Will she laugh at me?


And pile the scorn

On the acorn

Of this

Whatever this



And I know

That she knows

More than me


And I know

That she has

Set this up


So dare I?

Do I

Take her hand?

For despite the earth of it

That tenderness

It draws


It draws something

Out of me


It is my soul

And perhaps


Is what she needs

….The all of me


But will I

Will I have

Have the strength

To take

And to hold

The all of her?


For when it is loose

And in my hands


….What will I do with it?


Can I

Can I really

Have her?



With the finger paint

Pink and living

Ridges and swirls

Pressing the cello ‘tring

On the belle of life


And the cat-gut

Stretch of a feline



Arching its back

Across the hint

Of attraction


And the fluttery-buttery

Eyelash tickle

In the neck’s secret nape


And the bowstring quiver

As the belly dances

A teenage tune


Of blushes and wants

And messages

Bottled on a rising tide


And the careful

Word left unsaid

In case it wasn’t misread


But the tint

Of the hint

Is there


And can be denied

If the jury case

Was ever




In the catcher’s glove

Is held the first

Breath of



And the floating tipple

Fairy fly

Now casts its ripple

Upon the frond

Of the summer’s

Mills dream pond


And now tugs

Upon the line

And coyly toys

The wings of time


And feeds the drying

Skin of doubt

And starts

To let the feelings out


And the testing parry

Teases and warms

And probes the depth

Of his charms


And the gentle

Gentle praise

Hints that yes

She wants his ways


And that single tingle

Trickles down his spine

To make and to take

This woman to be as mine


And that first electric touch

That of course

Doesn’t really

Mean that much


Breaks the space

For all time

And holds the waist

That feels so… fine


And allows the tender dance

To pick the first pizzicato note

And as she shivers too

A quivering quaver is now wrote……