THIS IS NOT THE NIGHT

You joke that your
memory is tantric
as the Berlin Wall
of your expression
crumbles and you
ask my name.

And while others
may well notice
your breasts first,
with a fleeting glance
translating to a
'would ya?',


the silence between
us, with no added
sugar, rubs salt into
severed flesh as I
dissolve into
something biblical.

YOUR SHOES

People who look at you will comment
on your shoes

and how they wouldn't like to be in them.

Caught between a bomb and the
naked truth, this, for you, is terrorism
in print:

the razor blade of dawn that nicks
your eyelids while my concern
is the blood on the sheets.

PEACHES IN AUTUMN

To have sex for the soul purpose
of “getting it out of the way”
doesn't really cut it for me,
darling.

But you with your peaches in
autumn skin,
your aint got no - I got life smile,
you could destroy an empire
if it were in your way.

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