Sleepless

Click them off like

rosary beads

with accossiated prayers.

Smudge the dreams

into the eiderdown,

And divide them down

in ironed out

layers.

Line them up and

gobble them with listless

tea.

I am your prediction!

(said in shushes,

quite benediction)

I want to drop like stingless bees.

I am Addiction to Tranquility.

How jealous I am!

Watching him fall on his arse

as I begin the solitary farce

of trying to close my

eyes.

I watch his chest slowly sink and rise.

How beautiful –

to be cut down,

like grass.

Flophouse drapes of

cigarette smoke

hang from the ceiling in

billows.

A headache clings and

holds me close as

daylight stumbles

like a ghost,

and settles her questions

on my pillows.

The tragic thing about each morning

Is that I greet each sleepy dawn

with the dry and

pinkened threat of tears.

Sleepers – do you know the

might of what you do

each fucking night?

The oblivion in half your years?

The fiction of your wild frontiers?

The obliteration and presentation

of all your garbled

Freudian fears?

Do you know the glamour in what you do?

Do you know what I’d give to be like you?

To live and somehow not be here?

To close my eyes?

To disappear?

With Innocence

Innocence is like polished armour – it adorns, and it defends.

Slumping on upwards with

her kiss in my hair,

A circle of knees are her

musical chairs and

pearls fat as the moon

glint in the gloom

as we fall forehead-first

up a full flight of stairs.

(Pink balloons at the mouth of a party, inflating,

For a kiss on the cheek you can watch me fellate him…)

I tell  you I love you,

All sullen and dainty,

and that even the death-wish I’ve flirted with

lately

paints trails on my faces and

colours me saintly,

But you want me most (and don’t

try to deny it)

when my bones and groans and eyes all

imply it…

when pushed against an emergency

door

and our shoes like petals are stuck to

the floor

and I realise as I unpick your flies

just what my fucking hands are for.

“There’s a boy over there – don’t

look so embarrassed!

he’s up by the bar and he’s utterly pissed,

and do you think

that he’s ever been kissed…

(said with a wink)

quite like this?”

“So how much did you miss it?

The dancing and dirt?”

You press crooked grins to the stripes

on my shirt,

folded over my shoulder

like a toy that needs

winding.

I balance out all of your gnawing

with grinding,

while stamping my lust to the floor

like a soldier.

London Girl

(Give me a London girl every time…)

– I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your sexy little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl –

 (…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)

So she got her phone out and

Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,

Fine lines floundering

Like speech marks

Either side of her mouth.

So romantic!

A girl with a face of

Punctuation!

 Dirty pennies,

she said,

Your eyes are

Dirty

Fucking

Pennies.

She would finger the holes

In my tatterdemalion

Charity coats,

And my shop-bought medals.

She would jab her fingers

Against each point

Of the Burma Star,

Spookily,

As though it were a

Pentagram.

 She’s a washboard,

Her nipples are  thumb-tacks

In a cosmetic shade of

Gold,

With a crucifix stamped

Like a dagger glyph

Right between them,

like a silver sneer,

on her precious metal chest.

– I want to take your photo –

I want you in Pippi Longstockings

And to angle you just so, my no-knickered tart with her goosebumps on show –

 I’ll never forgot when she told me

She owned a leopard-skin

Pill-box hat ,

 And I said

 “You’d have to be dead

Not to fancy that…”

 I’m not sure how aware she is though,

Of how many people

Tongue- to- the -floor want her.

She plays bored on purpose!

I’ve watched beautiful boys

Go to pieces

Trying to entertain her

With a curly straw.

 She’s a real cheekbone feline,

And around her pupils

Rages a ring of jagged orange,

Like a jester’s ruff.

 And I think of all this,

Whilst she stands there,

 Moving from toe to toe

In her zig-zag heels,

And  wooden bracelets,

In her little lycra

Landmine that

Shop assistants sell

To girls like her.

And then she clocks me.

and she doesn’t say a thing –

she just swims smilingly  over

Through a parted gaggle,

Letting me grab her

Like I mean it,

Spanning her waist with my

Hands like

A corset –

And the fairylights

Are  just smudges

Across her sequins,

And her mottled shoulders are

Ten shades

 Of mostly white.

Crossed Feet

I’d never seen anything

like your flat.

It was fucking freezing

and your welcome mat

was all worn away.

All it said, was

‘COME’.

What an omen, eh?

You’d pinned Magic Trees

to the fireplace

and stupor hung from

all points of your face

then you made me lie across your knees.

Your legs knocked beats against

one another,

as I locked my feet,

one over the other

like beatific hands.

In the silence my eyelashes

rustled like fans,

and my forehead made furrows.

I clicked off my sorrows.

I recalled a scene by William Burroughs.

Mary Bell

The First Time I Got A Hard-on.

Summertime.

English Garden.

I was being suffocated

By a mattress weighted

By a boy with a wet face

And a fuck-you frown.

He held me down.

It was just a little childish swell –

And I managed to squeeze in a flushed farewell,

Blushing,

And crushing my face

To the springs.

The beginnings of a long dry spell.

A little death

With a Mary Bell.