Check Your Bathrobe

I am filth in a striped jumper.

I am Eros in polyester; Cupid with a keyboard.

A wettening, a fattening, a rush of blood
nether, a twist of a nipple, a feather
tracing insouciance.

I am your ignored urges; thoughts entertained, stripped and fucked.

A stinging slap, hot wax, a lingering
grope, raw ankles scored ragged by rope,
ball-gagged and bound.

I am Russian pornography, pixelated, plotless; sweat with a thousand-dollar budget.

I’m a maiden taken, a ballgown torn, a husband
seduced, three lipstick lesbians reduced
to two stabbing planes of motion.

I am your second spouse; that first finger.

I’m a glance, a laugh, a come-hither static
touch, a playful spark sucking your soul
from the end of your finger.

I am your favourite loss of control.

I’m the best friend you never had.

Some Whimsy

2.
Dreams
come in dozens
and sixes
and singles.

They bulge at the bottom
and taper at the top
and dance everything imaginable in between.

If you hold them right to the light,
you can catch a rainbow
in your hand.

They’re black, and white,
and filled to bursting
with shattering vibrant colour and
phosphorescence.

They sparkle
darkly
with velveteen brilliance
and pink-brittle promises.

They make beauty
brighter,
until your head fills with nonsense
and flitting amazement you wouldn’t swap for
the world.

Then, with a yawn, they’re gone,
lost in the calm before the
dawn.

4.
Moths batter my window, blind-trying for
the great white light.
What I would swap for wings
and such simple ambition.