Acquiescence

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Succumb to her
soft measures - offered
within embraces
and gripped .../


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Takeaways

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

How shall I study
your offered body?
With intimate sight
through my fingertips .../


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We Lay

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

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 Mike Bell Poetry...


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Field Studies

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

We swam before fish in that meandering gutter of long runoffs down from Kemble in our eel-shone skin – equal by breaststrokes and coloured cold white like a pair of split cod I waited for you to lift yourself from her wet veil – a single upper body heft in to warm air – mine...


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Les Sonnetts Luxurieux

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Is this her ultimate act of sadomasochism – his rest of days of pain? Is his reply allowed before her face down lies – taking it from behind which are – for others – kinks and well-hidden discomforts She pleads her case of cruelty when such cruelty was her cut and thrust by strangers’ cocks...


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Other’s Endings

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

She said she resented him swanning around and her wearing fears of his limped inability to earn that old income no longer kept her tied to their settle bed Instead – she rolled over onto another handyman for his stiffness to press into her loosened skin and for his shadowed face to take her excited...


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A History of Sex Education

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

We were taught to label opened plants’ parts in our relentless study of misunderstandings and delayed innuendo – ’til later zitty years of sniggered connections behind bike sheds My youth was a scruffy hedgerow of wank mags – naked bodies spread – stuck by god-knows-what under skin-scoring brambles – in rotting stuff Now real sex...


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Hampstead Heath

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

We scurried across NW3 but not the low-laid Heath of bricked-ish village-ness of idealised introversion – with loquacious City views No – We took the buff support of metre-high teak bars before the flow of beer taps – erect like those glass towers stood in that visible rotten mile We ripped at the greenery of...


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A Ghost Story

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Up at five with the ghost who is an hour ahead – not one for the clock’s change – she lets light in// She leaves her stew of scent on my stiff right fingers – as if marking out extents upon me// She squats upon my vice-set thighs – her other working of me// See...


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Ploughing

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Clasped - a cold buttock -
dipping to thoughts of others'
comforts - way before zeal
had become sloth-by-illness .../


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