Mister, you crinkle off my pants
like a yellow sucker wrapper,
(or, precocious, I can't tell which
with the crackle of this cellophane hymen
caught snapping like a lid on your mouth).
You are as thready as a wear in the leather,
puffing from the crook of your collapsed chin,
asking to "let me run one of your powder stockings,
cobbled, down my shin"
until, with one fowled swoop of your sciatic,
you sit me slap on your knee, how old are we?, say pretty,
pretty in your yellow dress!
(and, of course, you can guess the rest).
I am bucked and perched, my 'bit chest fresh,
my patent white feet swinging wide-soled and sweet,
while one finger, thick and sticky as a popsicle,
is slid in to check if the dough is ready.
But you like to crack the inside soft,
with a little time to spare,
And I find your tweed hands itching and
plying my two dumpling knees apart
as if to trace by heart a start on a sore
that isn't even a scab, yet.
I could slip you in, flaccid, to the side, I offer,
but it seems there's cutting in you still
(or at least, enough to slick one smooth slice between).
so I seep you all out, mister, yellow and mean.
It's two in the morning
Saliva has diminished, falling from his palm
A liquid yo-yo
Gutter clouds and petrified domesticated animals
And a versatile white sun
As did apartment blocks
Bent plastic rulers snap on ham buttocks
High class third page
Top button academics
Don't be alarmed by what he kept in that jar
Lunacy shifted from sallow faces
Plum pink and cherry red
Purple welts and biro blue
Tits and chicks with dicks
Laughing hyena men in prone positions
Circles and spirals
Plain closed question marks
Answers, riddles and somewhere
A source gets the kit bag together
Tracing his image with a feral fingertip
A juddering curve
A limp line