It’s not as though they were being watched, intel gathered, phone lines tapped,

colleagues replaced by covert ops, but either way being together was a risk.

There had been words spoken,

direct authority exercised,

a stern wagging of a finger,

the explicit rules had been carved on stone and yet there was a disregard of tone.

They had met accidentally, both enamoured with it enthralled by its sheer mass,

all branches had stretched out like arms longing for the holding of a promise.

She had sat in its shadow a particularly hot afternoon a co-conspirator,

closed eyes and been lulled gently hushed into a slumber

from the wind tussled leaves whispering sweet sweet nothings unheard before.

He had come with intent,

ill will and sass,

the product of an overbearing parent,

found his way to where he should not and saw her resting there.

On awakening her eyes adjusted like deer being hunted,

breath staggered,

an unusual quickening of her pulse,

as she found a gaze equal to her own and felt the faint in the fallen.


Each day they met there – he telling stories of giant leaps and feuding family –

she listened and watched,

transfixed by the transmogrification of feeling from the ground up taking root.

The nights felt like failure the days together like freedom,

she would turn over and see her self and feel nothing,

a vacuum, a restricted by,

longing for the sun to bloom and blossom.

They had been discreet

always separating at different times,

sometimes she would lean and he would climb above her,

catching scents amongst fruits that would dizzy and dismay him.

They had kept a hidden vow but time had its own agenda,

and in August’s hot sun

had bent branch and bough to envelope the two of them,

presenting him with a gift, a way for them to really be, for fate to make the choice.

So her gave it to her.


Gave her a taste of something,

something that no one should be denied of, and from first bite he knew:

Somewhere amongst the bushes they had been watched all this time.

a manchild stomp of feet

and delusions of mine-mine-mine,

the preventative made primal with all the rage of the excluded,

pulsing where blood surged like someone had their sticky fingers

all over his favourite toy.


She knew it was over,

Knew more than she had before

and suddenly felt fermented truth

at the back

of her throat.

She looked,

saddened eye,

she left to do what she had been told,

and there

under that same tree

shared a vow

with someone she never wood.

Laydies of Laysure

Friday, sassy little bitch, switcher her hips

and watches me watch

that full figure, tight hugger body,

strutting past Thursday like she be wearing yesterday’s rags,

a nobody a has been

second place to this new queen.

She fixes her hair, one eye still on me,

fixes me with a stare

knowing I follow the beat of her heels across the bored,

a walk you cannot help but leer at,

flicks the week the V’s as she passes,

laughs as jaws drop same time as her panties,

bare and brazen she sings her own tune

and all of us, all of us every one,

cat whistle the finale,

ginned up

jazzed up

she be our fix

pay whatever she wants

so long as she turns her tricks.


Saturday watches from the rafters,

her occasional cackle sweeping the room

amidst a Sunday’s laughter.

Her eyes missing nothing

looks through everything,

she be wise to Friday’s tricks

but sighing boredom, unperturbed

at this sassy little wench’s clicks,

for she be wearing bigger heels,

she wear the week like French lingerie and waits,

galouise poised between tapered fingers,

silk dressing gown draped, open, lingering,

she waits.

Shadow cast like noir,

she waits


unconcerned by that little hussy

because nothing tastes as good as Saturday’s snatch.


Sunday fixed a red snapper

and boasted a welcoming bosom

deep hips

curves to lose yourself in,

hangover lips

pursed and ready to breathe sweet air into tired lungs,

candy floss kisses.

She knows not to challenge for attention

she doesn’t mind the scent of those weekend girls

amongst your clothes

layered on your skin,

she soaks it all in

fills her boots with bother booty

and says nothing as you pick up your shirt

slink out the door ashamed

afraid of Monday’s stern words waiting.

She waves a slight goodbye as you leave

and smiles that soft tilted smile to herself,

something we will never know the why of

but kills us every time.


But I remember, you said…






dust bunnies and discarded thought

somewhere in there you found us waiting,

white-knuckled fingers crossed kind of waiting

the kind where unfurled hands ached at the movement

and the perception of it pained us more.


Funny looking and awkward

crumpled paper balls of memory with faded scrawl

like there had been a when but you couldn’t recall,

just like the knots in your hair you furiously brushed at it

hacked at it

scowled at it for not being the beautiful you had wanted

and all I could do was think how I loved the knots

would miss them when they were gone.


You took hold of the tattered memories

all wide-eyed and expectant

looking to me waiting for praise in your findings

and completely ignoring the fact there was nothing left

but the vaguest of imprints of a was we once were,

the importance of the remembering is forgetting,

and for reasons best left out of this, I’d rather not think of it.

Just ‘Cos

What did you do?

There were no doubt options here,

other syntaxes and quickenings were readily available

that you could have soared with, stolen like the magpie.

Perhaps a gesture of some sort,

a bow,

a humility,

a something that would make others blink

maybe even think

that this bird? Yeah she knows where she’s at.


Why did you do?

It could be argued a fault not your own,

a wayward gesture

that caught itself in the act,

that shipped itself first class

some kind of altered position

which showed a meekness not this bleakness,

this beakless,

unwinged thing,

but there be a reason, a choice you could have unmade,

yet in the nodding of it all, we both know you wouldn’t have.


Evacuate this evocation from the socially awkward position

I find myself in the crook of, the nook of,

that feels like a sheltered bomb

of brittled allegiances and susceptible silences

that call to arms, when I am not ready,

to fight against a something that really was a nothing

but waged a war no words would make a treaty of.

Designs On You

I place you as kindness

judge you familiar too soon

and find you foreign between my legs,

you, a body of whose wealth I had measured

only to find my surveyance short of your architecture.

No blueprints provided, no schematics,

you build cities there,

towering peals and plunging ravines,

and I forget I was the client.

Soon I wrap my legs around your landscape,

a wardened protective wall

that will spasm and crush,

pleasure provoked earthquakes

  • Of your doing!

I learned too late, do not plunder and found

if you are shocked by the pillage you find.