Unforgiveable Acts

Euphoria is only possible
by uncoupling from affray

She rolled me over so far
that I am now low – cowed

by a fear of never forgiving
her – my youngest’s mother

I lie in beds of others’ sighs
and wake to complications

I fail to recognise myself
in their bathroom mirrors

My pilferage of toothpaste
becomes my regular crime

along with naked promises
of being a polished surface

No smears from her fingering
is my implausible defence

Seaford Beach

Do you want to sit on that strand
with me and my old sun-tarred men
of Seaford – bent to sipped coffees –
as Newhaven’s headland is scorched?

Or do you take a click-clack walk
into other light on your fuck-me heels
with no one man you really know?

Tipped families and broken open souls
forever perambulate up and in and out
along tugging – dialling-down – shadows
as you decide which is your way to take

And my eyes will wait – still wait to follow
your choice – my own steps only echo
if yours are not into that sunset’s pull

because my last light will always be
seated and fixed among my equals –
those smile-tanned and happy talkers
without a wet desire to set to flames

Our true separation commenced
when you went with old lustrous ways –
too many times – too easily – for my liking

Working Girl

We briefly spoke –
it was a Monday
and you were out
in Central London
sounding slightly
drunk – three gins
gone and done
but not asked
about on your
next day return
Instead – it was
calmly stated
a week later –
you had taken
your lover again
We were shopping
for our youngest
in Haywards Heath
A bombshell
in M&S was not
your worst ever act

Last Dance

You were a low-slung
holdall of hot tears
in my useless arms

like those strained bags
of fairground goldfish –
ones eventually flushed

Not my choice of dance
either – in an empty place
at this time of life –

too much to yearn
after your choosing
of others’ routines?

Another unasked
question left to quell
as my discomfort rises

Seller’s remorse kicks in
as you consider my
boxed up possessions?

Do not answer me
and score higher points
of pity from our audience

Let me leave untouched
without your wept stains
on my dropped shoulders

as salted marks of high rank –
which you had removed
in a previous court-martial


Slept

One hushed minute is mine
around our slept-still house
as tea scabs cold in my mug
beside my unloaded bed
My asset of sleep is long lost
Me – not being cocky enough
to walk naked and scratch
Me – not wanting to unearth
all that has been lost overnight
Yesterday’s choice of clothes
is such proof of my new ways
now there is no inquisition
or other solutions – I love it
Such sluttery no longer matters

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