probably a poem about sex

I was a sail
                   or
                       buoy
a vessel for you
                            were a flower
                                                     child.
I was a farmer’s hand
on virgin land
with no plough to till your earth
                                                           ly ways
con     
      sensually wild.

So soon beneath the tell-tale tiles
of our riff-raff roof
where the fur black cat
                          ran back
to where we started.
Portes slammed and fenêtre failed
until legs were all that parted.

I was a basket case
a host for you
                        to be a missionary
                                                         in every place
                                                         except position.
And between your thighs
your holy ghost
touched every nebula of life
but not the universe of my religion.

And so beneath the chim-chiminey che-roo
where our fur black cat
                           once sat with you
the faces in your mirror on the wall still stare
and I huddle like a child
                                           in the corner
                                                                  on the chair
as I watch them grin
from the scrim.

Like a lonely leper
I let them in.

Juke of Flow

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Juke

I don't have a niche to blog about. I'm not an 'SEO wizard', 'happiness engineer', 'Apple genius' or an expert on anything. I don't have a product to sell, I can't make you rich, and I'm hopeless at family advice. I wouldn't bother if I were you.

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