Barren like broken coral
I wander the desert alone
a nautical map in my mind
of sand’s gristles coalescing
Fins and snorkel thirst for wet
suit and pursuit as bubbles
disappear in quick sand and
sink holes glisten and simmer
Down at the ‘see bed’ right next to
Atlantis rings in sunken dreams Oasis
looms and teases a free flowing spindle
drowns hope in foreshore’s drought
As dunes of loneliness grind my lungs and ponged prong
remembers to chill in the perspiring heat I am ambivalent of
whether it was a good idea to trade my life buoy for an anchor
TRENCHANT WENCH FROM THE UNROMANTIC MIDLANDS
In the pub, I serve out the pints
My comely bosom gives a hint of home
And what men are escaping from – dreary sex
With housewives who scour the sink with vigour
Trim the joint and lard the fowl
Gristles of fat clinging to their knuckles
As the froth of beer clings to men’s beards.
England is a riff between the breakfast table and tea
Where homely condiments drown the flavour
Of each day, and newspapers live on scandal
The seamier the better. It makes the ordinary man
Happier than ever not to be one of the toffs
Glad that she can be had for a song
Save the one that lies buried in her throat.
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