Parting Shots

Time stands still for none of us
And we were no exception
To make the best of fading lust
Ignoring your deception

Pretending things were perfect
We continued as before
As friends asked ‘is he worth it?’
Buddies set you up to score

That holiday near did for us;
Your family’s reception
On meeting me with much distrust
And little circumspection

Our boundaries were shifting
As I fought to keep my poise
My blinkers slowly lifting
To expose what truly was

With eyes that winced on meeting
Other women by the score
Full knowing that a greeting
Would uncover even more

We cursed each others’ choices
In the misery of loss
Until no amount of voices
Arguing the bloody toss

Could persuade me that I wanted
To accept the proffered shaft:
Wait the rest of life, undaunted,
Sat there, dreaming of the past

Thus a truce of sorts was drawn up
By the time we’d caught our breath
Though both of us were torn up
Crushed by every little death

Come the end, I felt responsible
For any pain you brought me
While accepting as inevitable
All the things you’d taught me

Advertisements

Manchester Noughties

By popular demand, here is the next instalment. This follows on from Out-growing.

A bolt from the blues
And there he stood
My long-haired, brown eyed boy

More trouble than he was worth
But oh, he meant the dawning
Of a brave new world to me

Black-clad from his boots
To his faded tee
Proclaiming the road to Hell

Hours spent revelling
Skin on skin
Tracing patterns on his chest

In post-coital bliss
As our sweaty limbs cooled
The disc spun its Dream Theater

And dirty, sticky
Sheets stuck
To our grinning faces

I felt so alive in those moments
Clambering over his dozing form
Twitching the curtain aside

Peering out at my world
Spying on the backyard
The comfort of a familiar scene

His middle-aged neighbour
Hanging out day-old washing to air
In a crowded corner

Grey skies over damp rows of workers’ cottages
Pegs and pots of geraniums
A battered bathroom chair

He took me places
We went to concerts
Wandered the aisles of the supermarket

Hands in each other’s pockets
I wore his jeans and shirts
Over my naked skin

Danced in the rain in bare feet
And walked through Moss Side
Nightly, after dark

Just to wake up by his side
So lost in my own happiness
No street life ever bothered me

The Future

One day it creeps up
With its laser-bright tech
Androids, iPads and iPods
And it’s me, me, me, next!

Me, first in the queue
For my bells and my whistles
Buying new, full price too
Grab an upgrade that sizzles

The older and wiser
Are left far behind
While the eager, hard-driver
Is blowing his mind

On fragile collectables
Soon out of date
But oh, so delectable
He just can’t wait

Get one home from the shop
And undress it with care
See your mates’ faces drop
Blank with envious stare

Why take the insurance
Of tested, tried, true
When flashy performance
Is shiny and new?

It’s progress, yeah baby!
You know that it’s fun
The future is selling
A new app to run

All manner of items
Are bought on the net
If you’ve never tried iPhones
You haven’t lived yet

Every inch of existence
Is broadcast in space
Yet we must be persistent
So we’re easy to trace

In the hope that new planets
Want to ‘friend’ us online
Drop a tweet on our twitter
To invite us to dine

At their favourite pit-stop
En-route through to Mars
Where the quaint little bipeds
Zoom ’round in their cars

The Thought Police

I came across an article the other day that made me oddly angry. I can’t even explain why with any coherence, other than that the concept of ‘sex positive’ feminism seems to be curiously restrictive in it’s focus. Surely if one is being positive about sex, one is being positive about all forms of sex, including the kinky, the kooky and the downright weird. I rather resented the idea that one should feel shame for finding violence in the bedroom or BDSM appealing in any way. Of course I may be reading the article wrongly. I am certainly not pro-rape, but the idea of there being an approved form of sex (vanilla) really bothered me, and sparked a brief bit of furious scribbling:

I don’t appreciate a peeping Tom
Someone gazing in my eyes, declaiming
“Tell me all your secrets, kid!”
Prefer a bit of privacy when
All is said and done, for sometimes
Thoughts inside my head are not
Appropriate, need censorship
But this in no way means that I
Agree, approve, or will support
Your making up my mind, inserting
What you think I should have thought