We Lay

We lay parallel on your sofa
as if raft-bound – beached –
rolled tight into hard intimacy –
into another urge of pushes
and pulls – you are so slight
that it seems almost fictional
An unexpected blast of verse
as rare as washed up ambergris
is our mute communion of sex

These Players

There are no long embraces –
no more slowing of time
by a hold on your intimacy –
or by those so-silent
acknowledgements
No unsaid understandings
by affection’s expressions –
none by a raised eye to mine

There are no looks in poor light
between slowly rolled reveals –
none from behind your kabuki’s drop
to show last acts and dull speeches
by your poor choice of leading man
to your bloodied hack of a queen –
an actress dressed by quickened lies
wearing arsenic in her makeup

Cat Walk

Your frore perfidiousness
has been widely sighted –
Janus-faced – a sour-mouth
denial to your being faithless

Every falsity is perfectly stitched
like your long green winter coat
It cost you a almost a grand –
but in it – you do look dog-cheap

One more label-sucker with cash
paying for sweat-sewn favours
of brow-wept stains of labour –
swiftly removed before it hung

in that so-air-conditioned
West London designer shop
in which you fell in love –
again – with spending pounds

and such a fattening potential
in your Cath Kidston purse
Now my tired wallet thins
by my loss of handsome cash –

my dried-out high tarn
of once-endless funds –
It is no longer filled enough
for your own satisfaction

You wore your virent purchase
to our first mediated meeting –
I swear you were sweating
as you walked out – in green

Landings

As if we two are met
strangers on our stairs
and each and every time
you exclaim a quick shock
as if these passed moments
are pricks of static picked up
from unexpected surfaces –
and we both step aside
under our new set of rules
of cold disengagement –
when once we embraced
This dance on the landing
is tiring – for me – for sure