All 4 entries tagged Love

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March 28, 2008

For the first time

For the first time.

I decided to require your hands on me

that afternoon that time began,


to remove my clothes.

The first time.

You premiered my bare bones,

my small breasts

and the hot scraggle

between my lumber thighs.

Now I need the feelings

of your gratitude palms

cupping the globe buttock,

the back of my shoulders

then the waist:

Retouching the parts that writhed for you,

and the parts that opened.

Time once-more:

Requiring but alone shift

the unfulfilled and heavier fleshes

of my chill selves against my chill selves:

My love, when shall you be warming them again?

Draft, March 2008

She dreams of the moment

when a uniformed man

comes with his brittle bag of bones

to her little suburban door.

The man is gone

he will tell her

they blew his arms and legs

and now his head

is popped open

on some other cultures dust.

She dreams of how she falls

leg weak to the kitchen stones.

Her love is just red bones

and all his pride

is left to her to bear.

She must be so inordinately proud,

silent sobbing in the pews

where all the men who knew her man

are screwing up their eyes

Some pity her pale face

and most admire

her quiet pride

accepting grace

and sad propriety.

They do not see her secret acts:

walking naked through the home

alone and rubbing ash and oils

into the places he could touch

or when she tears newspapers up

to chew on when her tongue is gone

or turning his clothes inside out

to find the arm hairs he has left.

They send the medals with salutes

they send the cheques by men in suits

they send reporters too polite

to note that she has tired eyes

Another uniformed man comes

to enquire why

she starves

and lies among the smelt out clothes,

terminal, from some weakness,

or disease, in-between her neck

and diaphragm.

Another Draft

The women bounce

on their smooth wet hocks

on the salubrious counters

of the place of ill repute.

Businessmen bid

for these moments of poise

gulping and baying

packed and packing memories

into their pockets,

where the notes have been

in the spaces in their liver cells

in their repertoires of banter

in their trousers

where the fabric tightens at the seams.

In amongst the crowd

a soldier glancing sideways


and duties tied down

beneath his suit.

He sends off texts to keep his eyelids cool

and his wallet closed.

The waiting girlfriend


reads his guilty grumbles

in the paucity of night,

shifting her imperfect limbs.

One dancer knows the soldier’s frowning eyes

comes, enticing, to the lip of her parapet

swaying always

and oiled like a gun.

It is the moment that

his warrior eyes are

resting dubious on the perfect thighs

the coiling elbows, haunch and wrists,

the pouch of her crotch.

And did his trousers tighten too?

And did the little lady know

at home?

Striking poses in stockings

young and desirous

awkward in the straps of lingerie

and pale.

Nervously eager to be naked for her love.

The noise cools

and every dawn

in the still neon pavement light

the dancers poke fags

into their mouths

and with sweat heavy vodka

and fistfuls of fivers

they clean off of their skins

the crusted eyeballs of the men.

And did she cry

that not her flanks

nor her breasts

nor her back

nor her calves

were like the ladies

that he saw?

She curls her legs

into her little chest

that lives for his custom.

January 31, 2008

Termless: A love poem employing no terms of endearment or adoration


She lets you open her

like the two halves

of a nectarine,


from about it’s core.

You liked the seed:

Licked it, and kept it in your palm.

Now, without you,

she shall never be whole.


She screams out sometimes

in her sleep,

and you whisper her awake,


close to the moon of the nose

that has taken in your smell.

The sighing mouth

that sometimes smiles around

your wide heat.


She watches when your

thoughts come

and your frowns come,

and leaves little bruises

with her teeth,

upon your arms.

You comfort her in the old fears,

and the fear

of this new requirement.


She sits by you

with the silence of tea,

still warm

from your finger dance.

The tasteable smell.

Now her throat throbs

while dual skins cool:

Shared heat

made milkily.

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  • Charlie! you filthy filthy girl! Still, all this is very amazing. well done :) didn't see you over e… by Adam on this entry
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