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Does God wear socks?

Jacques_Louis_David_DAJ007

Just look at him laid out there like some

long lost God in nothing, not even socks all

perfect and alone in his ebbing

contemplation while I look on wishing I

could slither into his sphere

of thought, a silk scarf drawn

over his back with no painted red

nails to score my notch or leave

the slightest trace of desire that

drips from freshly washed

hair and thighs with not the faintest

aroma of how a woman wants.

 

No

 

let me just watch like a secret and breathe

the moment into myth

(painting ‘Patroclus’ by Jacques Louis David, 1748-1825)

Sylvia

Bleached-moan-bone knuckle-tree flowers
skulk over skull-stony roots, granite-cold with permanence
amid misty swathes of cotton-grass, the tenderness
of grave-diggers humming water-hollowed rock and sleepless moss
Under the crab-apple she lays, she lies, a laze-stricken Lazarus in deathly completeness
forever, now, wholly fractured among us piss-ant poets
wholly critiqued and human. Holy

Hairy Girls & Silk Blouses (please, a little humour)

 I’ve known people

to blatantly balk at my underarm hair.

In fact, they’d feel

quite queasy,

find it

out-and-out odious

to have gleaned a glimpse

I wonder how we had come to be like this

so out of love with nature

so niggled by naturalness

so loathing of Lucinda’s long-haired legs

so baffled by Belinda’s burgeoning bristle

after that, I realised I too was

unaccountably uncomfortable

when my arms were lightly lifted

like swans necks
Then of course, I’d be overcome

by the urge to have

underarms like newborn cuckoos

those brazenly bald little baby birds

as little-big boys bow down to a fully waxed female

all skimpy and oiled, as slick as a seal

I think I must reassess my appeal
Oh, but that’ll never do!

The time it takes to strip the skin

to highlight the hair, to neaten the nails

the time it takes to buff the body

to dodge

the derrières

determined

decline

is time less spent

in intelligence
so you see, rebellion’s set in

the razors been relegated

to the shadows of the shelf

to the corner of the cabinet

to the bottom of the bathroom bin

the unaffected new me, the wild woman of wonga has 

taken over the bikini line

and the whole length of the legs

I struggle, now, with skirts

any shorter than 

ankle length

well, girly clothes do no justice to natural Woman

as hairy girls and silk blouses do not mix, so I’m
selling up and shipping out

to a place where I can beat my drum and

bellydance bare-assed beneath

voluminous veils of un-vanity

where I can pee standing

if I so choose

yes, as well I might

urinate in the upright

and in broad daylight

 

if I so choose.

And, to answer a question

I’ll quaintly quantify that

I’ve no beef

with men who don’t shave

 

Who wantonly wangle out of

waxing the wayward on winky and

deleteriously depilating their downy derrieres

 

maybe instead I’ll raise them a salute

while welcoming all to my haven

for the happily hirsute

Shepherd

We lay bleeding, scratching the soil for reasons amongst the kindling. I’ll be first to fan the fire at our feet, simply tofeel

life is precious. Disregarded.

Flowers to blind men.


We are lost, unthinking, turning round inside ourselves seeking a quiet corner where there is none to rest our heads motion gnawing emotion, the rat of suppression ripping flesh from the pyre of bones that

once knew joy

look into all those guarded eyes, if you still see with your soul past flaccid bodies bent on their daily grind, cool actors that we become. Life, the carousel of consuming, not real, fed to us line by line, line by line yet somewhere beneath the practiced faces

we tend our joy, we tend our pain, alone together as hermits in caves

and just like you, I am lifted

I

Fall

I too want to join the fold but cannot be the stranger we have become