Thursday, 2 April 2015


This is an erotic poem for National Poetry Writing Month. I wrote it in 2010 and it's been turned down from over 10 publications. Fuck 'em. It's going up here. If erotica is not for you, click off now.


A movie-themed bar,
obscure films on TVs and framed posters of the semi-famous.
We swallow shot after shot of sickly-sweet liquid
tequila blurs the neon lights,
and our image of each other.
With her dark hair and false eyelashes,
She becomes Liza Minelli in Cabaret,
and I start to wonder
who I am becoming to her.
My leap of faith -
Am I coming to yours?”

She uses her fingers, stroking clumsily.
The taxi window lowers
as we speed away from the city,
warm summer air invading the cab.
She leans out, risks decapitation-by-oncoming-car,
vomits, leaving trail behind us
then ups the window like it's nothing.

She has guinea pigs
They squeak nervously
When I walk into the room
She lifts the lid of their tiny home,
Placed in the corner of her own compact apartment.
The lights on the Quays, through the full-length windows
Burning like the Vegas of North England.
Her pets feed eagerly, like I plan to.
I'm craving her juice-
She makes me a berry cordial
I swallow it all.

We stumble into her bedroom
And watch each other undress in silence.
We kiss on the bed,
she smothers me with cleavage, rides me,
it's been so long that it hurts.
Tiny white marks on her stomach
visible in the room's halflight
faint signs of her past
A baby?

There's further temptation when she's on her knees,
screaming, gripping the headboard
I see myself thrusting
in the bedside mirror,
her head lolled down,
hair matted to her face
she can't see me
but she'll feel one hand
leave her hip
I flex my bicep,
smiling proud at my reflection,
Patrick Bateman-style.
I'm doing so much
that I've been meaning to do for so long.
I've had a drought,
But now she's flooding me.
I'm working through a mental to-do list,
Ticking off intentions;
Oral, given and received
I feel empowered, arrogant,
ordering her around the bed,
I deserve this.
When I finger her,
She screams, the same high-pitched note
as her guinea pigs' squeaks.

I'm a fleshy Roman candle,
the sparks go on and on
and there's no bang on my behalf.
Dull pain in the small of my back
tells me to stop thrusting;
woozy from boozy lusting
I fall face-down into her pillows,
breathing in a cocktail
of cigarette smoke, booze, lipstick, perfume, fabric softener
and woman.
The next morning she sits me on her couch
with the Sky remote while she dresses.
A music channel blares.
Keri Hilson's “I like” fuses forever with my memory of last night.
She asks to swap numbers, fine by me
Her next railing experience is the tram to work.
I walk her there;
She tells me she was a size 24 once,
and slimmed to a 14.

Flashback: I'm on top of her, fascinated by her reactions
The harder I slam into her, the more she screams.
I remember the scars.
She gets on, sits, the tram leaves me.
She doesn't reply to texts.

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