Cigarette Wands

There’s smoke and a stick of passionate relaxation
(how the two are one we’ll never know)
I like how the night feels
Cigarette wands and smoke bats
spiders crab scuttling the asphalt
round sun’s brew
drinking sweet moon liqueur.
Drunken never lights that sign conservative window closing
from the witch moon who embraces spectre clouds
grey glowing embers of dying tomorrows.

I hold ‘tween my fingers the wand that waves
the moon douses sun.
I like the night, the haze
inhale sedation exhale seduction.

(now snuff. The smoke
and fake philosophy.)

Hook and Stinker

Throw out,
to sea,
the smallest shiny bit, to tame a beastly mouth.
Bob up and down, dive search round
vanishing points neath the hazy turquoise
find the darkened smoothed out places
worn in the ebb – there the beast!

Bubbling groaning waves
(little bit, be brave!)
unfurling tendrils, tongues licking
the surface
beckon the small shiny bit
to a monster’s trove.

Take care,
crusted in salt seaweed, razor-jaw
he’s wild
the deep is his and there you are –
how could a trinket tame a beast?

Venus in Capricorn, Cancer

Let’s trace the constellation of your scars,

create a track of pitterpat footpads while whispering gigglesighs

in glittering, icy dust:

what we want

&

we are going to be.

Polaris — Thought

and your

Energy of Qualilty

quake and quiver in that, those shadows broke and bent

to this orbit:

Venus in Capricorn, Cancer.

anti-gravity

in the incisions of your stars

on their celestial path.

Waitress

I’m a waitress, I say

And Sir looks at my chest. Loin

Cooked to your liking? Murmur

Handing over the steak.

 

Who doesn’t like meat?

The vegetarians, you say,

And vegans, I nod agreeing

Lesbians? Your date butts in.

And we laugh but I hate you.

 

I’m a poet, I whisper in insistent instants

And duck away.

I should flee in black-cape to my misty night.

But all I have is goodwill rags and grimy street-streaked light.

 

Trade this, tit

For chomp. tip

For a romp, as

with all things,

 

Am I right?

 

Now tell us of love, they say, from your lover’s one dictation and your dreams.

Does Freud apply to your childhood?

What school of thought?

Are you more Homer, or Virgil?

And we all sigh. Because those questions don’t matter,

only medium, rare, or well done?