New Eyes

New Eyes

It’s new, bright, fast.
A door blasted off a buckled hinge.
She’s splattered with all these images,
like horror film blood. Only real.
They slap her flat to the far wall.
She closes her eyes.
Feels them cling
slick to her eyelashes,
her lips.

Before now, she’s not seen.
She’s not felt these hot, wet things.
How they razor in, saturate,
leave a permanent stain.
She can’t un-see them.
In glorious technicolour.
In hyper-real pixellated detail.
Especially when she closes her eyes.

The looming pores in their skin.
The broken veins and sweat
weeping at the hairline.
The dirt under torn fingernails,
the lumpy bruise-fade on
fight-shadowed knuckles,
old-split with scar tissue tattoos.
She never saw all that before.
Never knew she’d want to.

Their eyes prowl for hers.
Their eyes, so big, pulsing
red lines cracking the whites
like unwashed public porcelain.
Pupils dilated to black oil.
Now she can see right in.
See what’s going on:
dark corner pleas and bargaining,
grimy stairwells and illegal fireworks.
She never knew she’d want this.

She looks away.
Before they can see into her.

You Want An Angel

You Want An Angel

You want an Angel.
She will be pure, demure,
fair of face and good
in the kitchen.
And other rooms.

She will have
a soft, quiet voice,
will never laugh too loud
or question if you’re
wrong. Her figure
is perfect. She
enjoys cleaning.

She will be
a happy soul, content
that she need never
form an opinion
ever again.
You will always
share yours.
It’s not obeying, it’s
accepting, respecting

you are always right.
There was another girl,
you used to like. Kind of…
But she wasn’t…
pretty. The way
good girls are. She
talked too much: you
felt stupid.

And you’re not.
You’re not.
(She never said you were…)

You want an Angel.
You’re certain she’s
out there. Waiting. Pining.
Only for you. Your rescue:
ensuring endless gratitude.
A clipped-wing leash slipped
over to keep her shining
in your sight. Keep her
safe – don’t fly too far,
my love. You want

an Angel. You’re sure
you’ll know when you find her,
needing you. She can’t be
in disguise…
Surely.

Face – A Character Poem

Face

Face of an arrogant twat:
concealing, yet, ultimately
revealing. Insecurity, fears
of inadequacy. Sad
evenings spent analysing,
dissecting the desiccated
grudges of things nudged
to the back of your mind
in your Ikea-ed-up flat.
While you criticise the inanity
of the bloke doing the weather
on the Beeb. ‘cause you need
to be right about everything.
(Your phone’s not ringing…)

But the flashbacks keep on.
The regrets, the rewrites,
the judging them, the judging
you. The smudges of self-doubt
you want to cross through with
a sharp pencil – yet crayon
stains linger and wax your
tongue silent. You remember
school too well. Twenty years
gone: mustn’t fancy the creepy
girl they pick on. You do. You
don’t. You don’t know.
You won’t. And now,

the might-have-beens and
couldn’t-quite-find-courage-fors,
they’re all crowding your empty
bed, your lust-starved head.
There’s always going to be so
much more. So many times
you want to forget.
Like the girl in your bed.
The one you wanted.
You couldn’t. You couldn’t.
Your empty hands – you didn’t
know what to do with them.
With her. Your dislike of
kissing. Your distaste for goo.
Your dick gone limp at slickness.
It was her fault. She must be
dirty. Too forward. A turn-off.
Not right.

Face of an arrogant twat:
better than weak.

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.

Bite The Hand

Bite The Hand

I want to chew out the dirt
from under his fingernails,
eat away the grime of dead
time gone stale. I want

to lick his palms, to pull each
calloused digit into my greedy
mouth, curled tongue sucking
to taste, needy, strong. I want

to test my teeth’s sharpness
on his fingerprints, swallow
down the ground-in knuckle-
scar muck. I want to bite.

She Wanted… She Got…

She Wanted… She Got…

(to be read with tongue firmly in cheek, party hat wilted to the side and possibly a slug or three of mulled wine…)

She wanted a designer handbag.
She wanted a cute little puppy.
She wanted expensive perfume
and a kiss.

She got a hangover. She got
a bollocking at work. She got
a lovebite on her neck and
wished she had got a scarf.

She wanted a silent night.
The neighbours were
having a domestic.
Ding dong merrily…

She wanted a Christmas tree,
but ended up feeling needled.
Frosty winds made for
much moaning.

She wanted Peace on Earth,
but then she watched the News.

She wanted to hark to herald angels
singing, but just heard the drunks.

She wanted to spread good will,
not her legs. But she got pissed.
Again. Oh well. Then, yes, she
wanted to get laid,
but not in a manger.
She’d had much stranger,
but still…

She wanted to feel the magic.
She wanted comfort and joy.
She wanted a bloody great big star
to burn through the grubby streetlights.

She got an early night and a soak
with bath cubes from her Nan.
A mince pie and a cup of tea.
And a tot of Baileys.
New bedsocks.

It was ok.

If I…

If I…

If I wrote you a song,
it would be banned for profanity.
(Not to mention my singing.)

If I painted you a picture,
it would be gratuitously obscene,
gorgeous whorls of sticky-fingered
oily daubs.

If I wrote you a poem,
it would be pure Aglo Saxon,
“uck”, “unt”, “uff” sounds.
Not for public consumption.

If I told you a story,
it would be a top-shelf late-night
shudderer. Even without illustrations.
To be read under the covers.

If I spoke my mind,
it would all need bleeping out.
I keep the sound turned right down.