OutLoud
I love to hear poetry read out loud.
I love the voyeuristic peep
Into the recesses deep in the writer’s mind;
The literary glimpse into their bathroom cabinet,
The drawer beside their bed,
The intimate rummage inside a poet’s head.
I love the frisson from
Half-seen nakedness, the obtuse openness
Of a curious mind behind a mouth full of secrets;
A poet’s full-moon arse Glimpsed through frosted glass.
We poets wiggle our selves like bait for Fate.
Disguised as artistic purity
Our vanity and insecurity lure them in.
I lie in wait for the bite of Wednesday night …
When I stand to read my poetry OutLoud.
Strawberries
(Pick Your Own)
He looks her right in the eye.
No-one here could claim to be shy,
Or not to know exactly why:
‘Say “strawberry” for me,’ he asks.
This is a game for grown men,
And
The woman laughs, low and throatily.
She murmurs the word. Juice drips
Into his ears from her licked lips;
His hands rest lightly on her hips.
This should be the season
For grown-up good sense,
But
This unreason is ripe with possibility.
Each
Awakes, alone,
Smiling and stretching
Amidst the scent of forbidden fruit.
Fickle Boy
Where has my muse gone?
I’m deserted.
Is he living, debauched, in some London mews,
An amused pout on his fickle lips,
Taking sips of some other’s summer wine,
Twining words into thick coils of useful rhyme,
Tracing fingertip filigree up the supine spine
Of some dreaming poet
Other than me?
Well, is he?
