Talking To Girls

Talking To Girls

He’s forgotten how to talk to girls
and forgotten if he ever did know
how to talk to girls. He’d like

to talk to girls – if he knew how
As it is, if he tries, it all comes out
wrong. Stressy and messed up

and the girls – well, they’re women,
of course he knows that – they think
he’s all wrong. Because he doesn’t

have a clue how to talk to girls.
He’s forgotten, if he ever did know.
Or he’s not talking to the right one.

Smirk Or Smile?

This is for anyone who has ever felt tongue-tied in front of someone they really, really like…

 

Smirk Or Smile?

You’re pithering about, your pride cupped close
over your balls: to hide, to protect, to give up, to
keep out. You’re dithering, dreaming: carving up
each craving. Your blabbermouth wittering cuts

your tongue dead. You feel her looks withering
those careful-constructed witty asides, the ones
that sounded so good in the bathroom’s echo
and splash, addressed to the loofah. She is not

a loofah. Or a sponge. She’s not soaking you up
or soothing your spine. She’s got two ears and
a brain, two legs to walk away. Shoulders to turn
cold to your blithering. Wide mouth to smirk and

eyes to roll in exasperation. And, oh god, your
pits start to squidge with perspiration and you’ve
a sly inkling your breath stinks You need a drink.
Delete this whole conversation. Abort! Abort!

But actually, is she not smirking… but smiling…?

Eating Cake – a love (and lust!) poem…

Eating Cake

Let me eat cake.
Why would you dare
try stopping me?

But…
Don’t ever suggest
we share a single slice.
They do it in films, yes,
and you’re trying
to be romantic, or
what you hope “romantic”
might be. Two forks
clashing on one plate?
Fighting for cream
and crumbs?
Get your own.
Mine is for me.

Don’t try to feed me
either: sticky fingers
making messy insinuations
between my lips – impatient
saliva sharpens my teeth.
I am not a baby bird, beak
gaping for worms. Or
a toddler. You are not
my Dad. (‘cause that
would be plain weird.)

You see, I’m not
ungrateful. Not averse
to your sugar-baked
advances. The cake-y
chances you’re taking,
that sponge and sprinkles
could ignite an inkling of
passion – I’m flattered and
to be blunt, one day, maybe,
if the recipe is right, I could
raise your buns in my oven.

But for today,
hold my sticky hand
and I’ll cross your palm
with chocolate icing
and my hungry tongue.
Yes, I have eaten cake
for many years before
we met. Sometimes alone,
sometimes with friends.
You never forget.
The point is:
I know how to do it
already. I could probably
teach you a thing or two…

You can watch if you like.

Why not
have a piece
all to yourself.
Next to me.
I won’t share,
but, with you,
I’ll always
exchange a bite.

Cardigan – An Erotic Poem (ummm, sort of…)

Cardigan

Cardigan, complicit,
we turn him on. He
won’t admit it. But
we know. A slow

sleeve slides hairs
up on his arm as we
pass. Buttoned up
or shrugged undoing

from a warm shoulder.
Cardigan, deceptive
one – demurely fitted,
loose-knitted allure.

No body quite pulls
the lambswool over
his eyes like we do.
Comfort’s purest

purr to unravel his
best intentions, the
things too blushy to
mention. We let in

his hands to explore
unseen, between you
and all of me waiting
for him underneath.

Another one about phones….

Ok, so the last poem was about making that call, so this one is about waiting for that call… Wanted to include a song to fit the mood, but my favourite “phone” song is about being a bit of a crazy obsessive person phoning the object of their affection all the time and being a bit of a nuisance… So it doesn’t quite fit. No matter, it’s Blondie, so I thought I’d include it anyway…

Things I Don’t Get

I don’t get
equations and
mortgages and
interest rates and
spreadsheets and
tax and why
you don’t phone

when you said
you would.
“Honest,”

you said. I shrugged
you my digits. Wasn’t
that bothered. Didn’t
take yours.

I don’t know
why socks divorce
and teaspoons
disappear. Why
the handle came off
my favourite mug
in the washing-up.
Or why you said
you’d call when

you didn’t
intend to.
I don’t know

why the toast
falls butter-side
down. I don’t own
a screwdriver or
sensible shoes.
I don’t understand
half of the News:
wars and banks
and politics
just confuse me.
So do you.
I do know

I am not stupid.
(I have an ok IQ.)
But I feel it.

Ways To Say…

Ways To Say…

Could dispatch
a carrier pigeon,
or twit a Tweet,
or S.W.A.L.K.
a snail mail.

Could puff a smoke signal,
or click a Facebook “poke”.
Could tag a photo.
Could flick a virtual

kiss. Could say
something with flowers
or a Gorilla-gram.
Or just thumb

a text.
Short.
Succinct.
Smiling.
To say….

Yes? In the old days
(y’know, Pre-Millennium?)
we used to just
pick up the phone…

(…pulse pounding,
handset slippy in hot palm,
twirling the cord
round nervous fingers,
quick breath echoing
back on the dial tone…)

… just pick up the phone
and call.
If we wanted.

It’s still an option…

Done With

A poem about dysfunctional relationships inspired by the song at the end…

Done With

Done with him. Just hope
he’s at one with all the stuff
he grieves for. All the guff
he cries belief for,

when it’s only a quest for
relief for every sin he
ever committed, every
kindness he omitted.

For every loss he swears
not confession,
but blame. No shame,
‘cause he drank it all away.

Thinks he can manage it.
Thinks he can block it out:
heavy beats in the car,
JD and driving fast.

He knows what he did.
He knows who and what he
hid from. He knows the anger,
the guilt he placed. Lit matches
and split lips. Faces he
spat in.

Done with him. Done and
dead and too much to ever
go back to that crap. Ties
slice-bound, now broken, severed.
(He said I thought I was too clever.)
He is worth more, but
‘til he believes that,
there will be no angels
to weep. No one to
sing him to sleep.

Redemption is only
temptation’s sorry leftover:
not for me to say.
Or anyone.

Some will pray.
Some will mean it.

Another Lost Soul

Another Lost Soul

I don’t want another lost soul,
don’t need another arse
to wholly screw me
over or above
or under
the rug or
any promise
of nebulous love.

I will not be another lost soul.
I have a compass and
a map. And packs of
chocolate biscuits
to sustain
and tempt.
I hold my own
and maybe
his.

He is not another lost soul,
though he took a circuitous route,
the long way round. No matter.
He got a bit confused.
His shoes are a little
careworn. His feet
are a little sore.
But he knows
he is able
for more.
For me.
For time.

Afterwards

Afterwards

She lies there looking at you afterwards
and you know you’re already gone:
stood there in her room, looking out,
beyond her net curtains.

She can’t mop her sticky thighs
or clear her aching throat while
your eyes reach out to
the house opposite hers.

She doesn’t make any move to touch:
she knows you wouldn’t like
her to do that, now. Unless she
was someone else.

She won’t cry with a man still there
in her room and you know it’s
time you took your sorry
corpse away to let her.

Last Time

Last Time

Last time I was in here
things were different.

But this place, it looks,
it smells, it sounds
just the same.
Same threadbare seats,
same bar stools, same
bums probably. Some,
at least. But I don’t
remember who.

Must be more than
ten years ago.
Must be.

You were trying to hold
my hand and I was trying
to pull it back. You
bought me a drink
I didn’t want. You
introduced me to a bloke
called Dave, or Phil, or Joe,
or something. I didn’t know
what to say. You tasted
of Guinness in the kiss
that cringed me.
In front of everyone.
Said you’d been missing me
all week. Your arm weighed
possession-heavy
on my back. Your mouth
kept smearing spit
on my cheek.

It wasn’t your fault
and I should’ve waited
or been more clear before,
what I wanted or that I… didn’t.
The sag of the bench seat
was eating me whole and
I couldn’t wait,
in case my new heels
got beer on them.
(I’d bought them ‘cause
I’d seen them in Cosmo.)

No one wants to be dumped
with Dave or Phil or Joe spectating.
My youth’s impatience was and is
no excuse. You tried to buy me
another drink

I didn’t want. You tugged
my wrist and gnawed your
lip ‘til I was prying your
fingers away, like
clamped jaws,
sinking teeth,
of a rabid dog.

It wasn’t your fault.

The cling of hurt, the ouch
pinching your eyes was
mine. Last time
I was in here,
I was different.

Can I buy you a drink?