My friend’s Aunty Margaret
knew a little boy who
was that curious
he could spend
all day long
in a bucket.
Your ears send me delirious
They’re as foreign as a bat’s radar.
Trumpet like lilies
and remind me of the elves I loved
(who lived in a hollow oak tree).
You say they’re angel wings.
I want to lick one
pup to cowpat
and there is no one to shout, Stop That
or pull on my lead.
I’m not falling for you at all,
I leap. Hey diddle diddle.
I was an adolescent with Fat Freddy hair.
Two thick socks for a cock
nobbed down my jeans,
three quarters the length of my thigh.
He flashed fishnet calves, virginally slender.
His double D tits strained his surplice,
nipples permanently erect
acting as tent poles for his wimple.
We danced, combating between
thrust and allure, skirting
the fringes of each other.
Sweat peppered my top lip.
When he suggested his breasts
I needed no second request to grab.
Those nips were something else, each swollen
hard as a dildo’s tip.
I butted my groin, urgent.
Quick to press his palm firm
against my woolly penis,
little finger to thumb, he spanned it all.
Caught, we stopped
as still as this phantom limb,
this g-spot, as if we’d stumbled
upon the ghost of another life.
Neither Up Nor Down
We wait for a bus, not knowing its arrival time;
nor its destination, beyond Up.
After half an hour, we walk
along a road that turns into track
that climbs to a vast green falling away of all noise
except the amplification of water,
the thin call of cirrus
We turn round before bagging the summit;
fail to feel failure, and settle near a solitary picnicker.
You make lamb tegine; I unpick the latest Cronenberg;
we compare shampoo.
We scuffle, take photos of our gurning,
looking bald and ill. We laugh because we’re not —
we’re only halfway through.