Sunday, 12 November 2017



Sleep, Sire…I am a pillow

for you,

satin sheets,


and smooth as waters,

undisturbed by the breeze,

yet wild

of heart, like a nightingale, released from her bonds,


all spread,

sleep, great king, my body

is a bed, for you,

and it longs

for your weight; pushing, swaying,

to undulate,

battles and campaigns are for

day-break, for when we have sun,

not these stars;


let my fingers caress your scars and ease

the aches

in your bones,

my lips are a silken cloth,

draped in your lap,


and wholly exposed,

my hair, is gold cords,
at your hips,

my tongue a tender,

revering kiss, that brings its own

precious gift;

a great concerto that grows and lifts into heavenly,  

angel-song, the kind of worship that can never

be wrong;

in holy light,

I kneel

at your feet –


sleep, bold sir,

sleep, my hands in your hair, a crown,


lay your hunger

down and a feast I will set

for your pleasure,

no silver to count

nor payment to measure, close your eyes,

and fall into


sleep, as I pay homage;


I came only to serve you, tonight.



Come closer,
lock bodies, nay stay, and lock minds,
every inch of you hidden,
a part I must find in my searching,
a sacred treasure hunt,
arms of memory – dulcedo - a blanket
of trust; nay but trust,
was a long-hunted thing,
you caressed and blessed and slapped with a
sting, and a scratch,
a deep bleeding wound,
on which you held pressure
and nursed me through, pains
of healing, stopped me picking
the scab,
pinned down my hands and pulled me back
by my hair;
not vicious, but kind,
rough enough;
my best things
in mind, you whispered,
ex animo
as we lay,
in the dark, trusting presence,
like I trusted
the stars above us to stay, 
and the strings in between,
and you, not to injure,
where the scars had been, but protect,
whenever they showed;
in mea bellator, under covers,
now gloriously,

Creatures of the Night

Steal away in the dark, from their
watchful eyes, shining like cats' under the city lights,
lead me this way, in a wanton flight
of fancy
to a hidden place - anywhere they cannot 
look upon our faces 
and perchance may see,
the creatures of the night we escape 
to be,
entwined under beats
and strobes:

follow my breadcrumbs 
down a darkened road
then whip me back and forth
with well-deserved strokes, and sweet lashes, of my wicked 
catch me,
hold me,
as I writhe and shake,
bound pixie,
in this rhythmic heat,

I know you are starving, my  gentle beast,
whose teeth are a welcome 
whose tongue is 
a sparkling trove of treasure, laid, but tender, on me:

come chew through my bonds 
and set me free: I offer my throat; I am yours to eat - dine
until you're satisfied:
Red Riding Hood sees the wolf in your eyes,
and she wants him
under her spell...

Taste her and rock her, 'til her heart shall swell,
like an ocean 
enticed by the moon:
and come the Witching Hour, let her be howling too. 

Wednesday, 7 June 2017


Sitting across,

you looked in my eyes,

wrote untrue words, drew


on me,

that I need to erase,

that warped our memories and


days and nights,

of knowing firmly, what I am,

in your mind, in your heart,

under your


and your hands

from someone precious,

and carried in your soul,

to someone who fills, gaps, alone,

not a constant

but an occasional thing;

feelings on, feelings off; like a

passing wasp’s sting that smarts,

intense for a while,

then fades and erodes

as a passionate smile between

those, I know,

light each others’

worlds; a momentary sparkle

of a diamond,

or a glint, of the pearl

I knew myself,

to be,

in your eyes,

until you were wearing this new

disguise that denies

all I felt, and yet see:

you are not, you are not,

what you’d have

me believe,

not just a taker, out to

deceive; who casts and reels

however he pleases for no reasons,


than he can;

that is not the measure of

the man that sits now

carving his name

on my heart;

he does it

just the same

as at the very start; when I know,

I carved mine on his too,

and slowly thereafter, neither

one of us moved without

holding the other…

…cradling them,

in their chest,

each day;

veiled and undercover

to protect what ignites in a look,

or a touch;

not nothing, at all, but far too much

to define,

or ever describe –

something we cannot help

but keep hiding,

like a heart,

drawn quickly, in the sand:

of me,

of  you,

this is all I have ever believed;

the only reasons I understand.

The Last Rose

She only wanted
to be loved like the last rose,
it wasn’t a lot to ask,
and she showed you exactly how
to love her; her present,
her future,
…her past,
it wasn’t any ability
that you lacked,
you were not incapable
of filling
unconventional cracks and the voids that she mentioned,

it was only that you didn’t
pay her enough attention, to learn all the
littlest things;

and so if you have never seen
her sing,
while she
cooks dinner,
never seen her spin around
and dance,
when she changes the sheets -
perhaps it is only
because you were asleep,
when she asked you to know her.
And if you wonder,
what she looks like
on a freedom-kissed beach,
or how strong she is whenever
she reaches,
the top,
of an arduous climb,
or what she wears,
on a lazy,
Saturday night…if you don’t know her,
with hair, tied, in a bun,
or soaked, and tanned, and wild,
a beating,
foreign sun,
perhaps it is because you never got done,
making her feel, like that
last rose:

…most beautiful and cherished and plenty…to you,
being whichever ‘her’,
she chose. 

Friday, 31 March 2017

Not All The Time

Something. Sometimes.
And then, not much.
Sometimes, reached for, and
sometimes, untouched, unspoken,
inconstant, undone...
sometimes, the moon,
...then pushed away
by the sun;
and yet;
and bringing,
only love,
never waxing, nor waning,
it fits
like a glove of
satin, a tender caress,
one hour: more
the next; less, than ever,
made small
footprints in a soul and a heart:
when it is not
in the warmth
of an honest embrace - when
it cannot, smile
and press it's face,
to the safety,
of a rhythmic chest...
breathing calmly, in a feather-bed
as certain
as the stars will shine...
to something
that need not
be defined.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017


In the twilight, I slipped back
between the sheets,
where I tried to re-enter
my precious sleep, in the empty
space I was expected to be, now that the sun
was rising. A deepening orange,
heated the horizon,
and victoriously, heralded day,
and I knew I was no longer
supposed to need,
all those creases, carelessly made -
I was supposed to pretend and turn away,
from that which I knew to be right, supposed to
see now, the fading night,
as something erased, by dawn. And it was not so
easy then to stay warm; amongst those illicit, untidy thoughts,
without some assurance
inside. I rolled and stretched; a chained sort of sigh;
buried my face and tried to hide,
as the light,
slid deft fingers between the curtains.
Only one thing was all too certain,
when I could bring myself, to draw them :
a crescent moon, hung stubborn, in the morning,
golden against the sky –
and loyally, it hung there ‘til lunchtime,
to remind me, that it
would remember, and keep,

the night.