Saturday, 7 November 2009


Your pants
Are past your arse
And being rolled like
Homemade Cuban cigars
Down your inner thighs,
Until they land
In the sand that escaped
From my sleeves when I started
Handling these dreams;
Such a time it’s been since I found myself
Graced by this sight.
I have to wipe away the stain of water
From my eye corners, so wide are they
Being made, and wider still
Are smiles until
They puncture cheek space
And muscles brace themselves
For more.
Certain words were
Invented to
Prevent us from
Learning a vocabulary
Above our station, and the profanity
Of ages falls from my tongue
As it touches your cunt,
And all fresh and fruity,
I’m not going anywhere, for it’s my duty
To the room to stay as groomed as possible,
And race you
Onto our mutual bus.

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