Sunday, 9 August 2009


Manacle back my hands,
Plunder my front with yours.
Hard yards at your command
Until thrilled by applause.

Spread on the bed my frame,
Straddle its saddened form.
Rise as your prize is claimed
And stay laid on till dawn.

Wake to retake my dust,
A morning horn to blow.
Sated by weight of lust
And sack of tobacco.

Wine me and dine in style,
Rape me and shape to thine.
I spin rinsed in your smiles,
Less often lost in mine.

Tie my hair from my sight,
And hand me reflections
That show only the light
Of wide eyed correction.

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