six kisses


Two red cells,
Blood and teeth –

Upper lip?


Boy In Barfly

Oh yeah, like that – your tongue’s a feather
Flamingo pink,
Wet with weather,
Drowning in the mouth of me.

Cherry stems
Locked together.


“But I -“
“Just one kiss? I’ll make it quick!”
“Fuck off Arthur, you make me sick.”



Julia is on my knee,
Grinding like a toy.
Her hands are at the back of my neck
And she says
“Come on then, boy.”
and flicks fag ash at my lap.




I love the taste of your spit.
I like it when you let it drip
with me pinned beneath you like a doll,
my mouth open like a gash
letting you drown my crooked teeth
letting you dribble your DNA down my bottleneck throat.
(Fucking hell Jack!
You are a terrible kisser…!)



We’re both naked,
But I don’t want to do anything but kiss you.
Not right now, anyway.
You’re so fragile, darling,
And so small,
And your mouth is the pink wax seal
On the envelope of my life.


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


 Dirty pennies,

she said,

Your eyes are




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,


As though it were a


 She’s a washboard,

Her nipples are  thumb-tacks

In a cosmetic shade of


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.