bone deep fear

Men are scared of women
I know it to be true
pillow over my face as I lie sleeping
drugs in the soup
flash of knife in halflight
push on the edge
drop from a moving car
Into the river
over cliff
will you kill me now?
Now
that I admit my fear
or
will you do it softly
slowly
feeding me up
looking after me
into
obesity
heart attacks
through
the lack of exercise
one extra piece
two spoons in the cup
a special treat
that won’t hurt
warm and cozy cardies
to strangle
gently
lovingly.
I say
give ’em enough rope
And they will
Kill us all
In the long murder…

Sometimes

Sometimes
I get so hungry
No chilli
Curry
sweetness
or
sour spice
could ever fill the space
I’ve tried…
I get so thirsty too
No beer
Lager
Wine
Vodka
slates me
Lord knows I’ve tried that too.
sex
movies
don’t fill my mind
In the way
That dreams
or
memories
can do…
I’ve had to
Imagine
a
drink or 2
before
now
meals also.
thinking remembering
tastes
smells
as I
hunkered down
with my
hunger
thirst
my want
of
WOMAN
friendship
love
empty
as yesterday

Not in a relationship

Not in a relationship
there is no food in the fridge
a heel of cheese
wrap of butter
bottles of beer
she arrives
she is beautiful
she is a whore
another mans wife
& I still will fuck her
as she will later
fuck my friends
at least that
saves me time
in sorting
she says she
wants to
kill me
love me
save me
from me
fuck my friends
and me
& we  will all dive in
to her
shame

all apologies

All the apologies
would make
what
one jot of difference?
and the difference
between
sorries
and
shame?
and no
they are not
the same
sorry without
a change in behaviour
is but words in formula
to appease
shame
has no ease
lies in wait
sneaking up
on a blue day
just add to burden.

Driving through Paignton

Been fifteen years since I was last here, here with Lois and a different self. I’m looking at the views, the scenery that makes this part of ‘The English Riviera’ and yes, the sea and sky are blue today. Every scene is wide and open, this I don’t remember from before. To be truthful there’s very little I remember at all, the odd tilted snapshot seems vaguely familiar as though I’ve seen the pictures in a friends slide show, a jerky super 8 seventies flick projected on contoured walls. The roads are quiet in this out of season time apart from the old dodderers who feel need to stop at every approaching car; this is fine right now as I try to orient myself after all these years.
Lois apparently lives here again, though thankfully I have no idea where as I’d be tempted to drive by, in the English rather than L.A. style, gawking awkwardly to just see how she is, without wanting to be seen. If I did see her, I surely wouldn’t know if it was she, my memories are of glasses and hair, cold early mornings and not much else. This is happening here too, here today in Paignton, we spent time here together, doing what escapes, for nothing is familiar as landmarks. Then realisation strikes me, of course there are/were no landmarks for us, we split through gross incompatibility and sleepy inertia. I can’t tell of romance or passion, of interesting conversations or friends to hold us together, for none of those existed then. And now, this car sweeps along roads we once journeyed together. Slowly the car meanders, as my eye sweeps for something to remind of earlier existence here, but only space and newer landscapes filter through stunted Torbay palms.
The one friend she had and I disliked is dead now, he wouldn’t have tried to pull us together, his move into drug dependence came first, last and everything. Lois too is dead now. Maybe she lives, breathes here somewhere, maybe she has created life(s) to replace the overweight white long haired slow cat she overindulged when with me. That Lois is dead, as too the cat no doubt, that child woman who wanted to be in love with me but couldn’t maintain grip on loving when honeymoon glow wears thin and winter of long haul seeps in.
I have a photograph, edges curled and creased of her standing in a room we once lived in, coffee cup in hand, smile or is it smirk? Questioning why I would want to take the photo. The why of then has gone but now it carries reminder of how she and I were: her incomprehension of me and my steady long lens observing of her. As then, my eyes sweep to find some memory for commonality, a way to create sense of now, place and time here. Paignton is escaping me as did/does Lois and the me of then, the road leads out of there.
Soon I am above Torbay, I can see all below, open and wide, though fine detail escapes.
To find her would be easy, checking ‘phone books, the asking of newer friends in the same line of work as she, a trawl that would gather nothing edible, only bones of what was once nibbled, gone before. I cannot think of a single good reason to do this but the fantasy swarms my head for a second or two of how she would be now; fatter no doubt, slower, older and possibly wiser. Selfishly I would want her to refresh my memories, but no doubt she may also have memories of her own I will not need to hear, stories of my selfishness and blind driving then, of how I held her back in ways no longer bearing meaning or sense for me. I was a little different then I think, wanting a fairy tale romance of lovers who could make wishes, life fantasies come true. Wanting a life of interest and not knowing just how dangerous that could be for clutter memories. I would want her to tell me of the boy/man then and his dreams, for I believe them shattered now by times wrecking ball and rock steady drip of need to earn money. Would she see a different me, or one whose edges have become blurred like so many contemporaries? I hear them tell of middle age spread but secretly they/we know it is but the mould slowly wearing out as year on year they attempt to complete whatever sentence self assigned in youth.
I am out of Torbay now, was I ever there seems good question, maybe Lois is still there, having found a softer place to sleep, featherbedded now against pains I experienced in growing up and foolishly thought to share with her as an aid to understanding them. Our parting I remember as softened by the absence she created in presence though tempered in jealousy of her taking up with an old friend of pretty quickly, to piss me off, show me the error of my dumping, whatever, hindsight clears the stunt and as then no harm done. Paignton may be a place that I will pass through again, then with no memory of Lois, as now, but then with no need to ever think of these things again. As insubstantial as second hand ghost stories these non memories have been laid to rest.

It’s a Man’s World…

Maybe this is something we cannot talk about
anymore
the loony women
we met and survived
of course
they ALL survive
us men
’cause we are strong
and they
are but weak
odd creatures
who would
kill us
if only they could
but
instead maim
our psyches
and live on
afterward
crones
cackling
in brittle boned triumph
‘sisters are doin’ it for themselves’
Oh Yes.

Vulnerabilities

&
that’s the difficult thing
all of these were before therapy
before
working You out
working out my dad
my family.
Before life moved on from hurts to unresolved issues.
Before I got a grip on myself.
None of these actually cared about me
much like you didn’t/don’t
there was something they wanted from me
whether it was the sex
or some kind of loving
i didn’t know & still don’t
but,
the big but
at least we had connection
there is none to you.
My relationships before
were based around needs or wants
I suspect that is what you would say to me now:
what do you want?
I had some idea that they
coming from families
with
both parents
love
care
some answers
&
that was my attraction to them:
the hope of rounding me out.
& that sounds crass doesn’t it?
But it’s true
I was looking for answers from those who’d had what I hadn’t.
The problem was
I had poor selection skills:
the people with the bits I needed
were not available to me
or avoided me
they saw the need in my face.
&
then those I did find rather than acknowledge they could not help
chose to blame,
shame further.
I thought I was sharing my pain
&
all they seemed to hear was blah blah blah
the whining
the need
a bit like now eh?

hips that pass…

She was beautiful
in that dark
haired eyed
soulful
beautiful way.
but
she wasn’t beautiful enough
to drag me
away
from whatever it was
caught my eye.
she was clever
bright
in all the right
places
though
she wouldn’t blow me in the movies.
She could cook
even if some
of her offerings
were burnt
tasted strange
kind of like her in the night
when I tried…

Yellow candle burns bright…

By my side, flame steady, no flicker to distract as I write this wondering of the whys and wherefores:
The times of sex/making love in cars, how supposedly ‘most of us have the same uncomfortable experience’ or so some pundit sharing purple prose and pedantry tells me from the t.v. And I get to thinking of the last time, when I thought my head would explode as you sucked me to oblivion. I loved that sweetest pain in my reaching, reaching, straining muscles. Screening out the world and the where of where we were and the saying of thank you’s that didn’t cover a part of my appreciation, the so long of that happening before and sad wondering of when this may happen again. Men don’t have multiple orgasms and when they happen like that I thank god, I couldn’t stand the pain, cramps, loss of self and memory gapping. I’m not sure you recognised the moment, spent and drained I couldn’t explain, so now you’ll read this and maybe wonder whether you can make that happen again or even know if you did…
Supposedly the refuge for younger lovers with nowhere else to go, making love in cars, like so many things relegated to youth, can be supped slowly and savoured as gastronomy as an alternative ven-ue in later times. There are however difficulties.
With Gill after a beer, sliding seats back in a woodland car park, hearing another car pull up but ignor-ing it. Then five minutes in, trousers loose, she underwear down, blouse open and our hands involved in our finding when: tap on the window, torchlight and gruff voices. The Old Bill, “Just wondering if everything is OK sir?” hearing the joy in their voices as they’d caught us, the wonder if we were mar-ried to each other or others, the sadistic glee at stopping others’ pleasure-not on my beat eh sarge? We left, to never go there again, it was never the same again, no more did I get to leave my muddy footprints on her dashboard, she her knickers under my seats, lipstick wedged under the handbrake-how that happened is anybody’s guess.
But that, the first and last time I ever got hassled by the police. Rain through sunroofs, loose brakes at the wrong time, people asking directions, all these but side dishes for the dessert that is car sex. Each experience different.
I guess I was about thirteen/fourteen hitching my way to a friends house and an old van stopped, in climbed in up and over porn magazines, stale handkerchiefs and cigarettes. I moved them all blush-ing the while as the driver told it was ok for me to look at them. They were strong stuff; women suck-ing, men fucking and me still blushing feeling my cock harden. He smiled again and stopped ‘for a cigarette’ I took one from the pack as he told me which picture he liked best, asked me for mine and then casually began to stroke my thigh. I squirmed away and he offered me cash to see my cock. I showed him and he began to stroke it, talking of the women in the magazine, their tits, soft wet cunts, he took a pair of silk knickers from the glove box and began wanking me until I burst over his hand and into them. He gave me the money, a pack of cigarettes and was gone. I standing in the sunlight, side of the road, spent, shaking with the enormity of what I’d just done, all the warnings of parents, teachers and playground bogeyman tales. I smoked another cigarette, stuck my thumb in the breeze and was gone. I didn’t tell my friend who I was visiting, didn’t know how to say.
It was many years before I had sex in a car again, taking Colleen to the city, stopping at the side of a country road as she told me of underwear and the wanting of me since we last slept together. I had an old Ford with a bench seat and we did the deed in minutes just to slake the pressure until we could do it again, she lifting skirts, moving knickers to one side, gasping as I entered, breath, uh… uh… uh… urging more, harder, deeper, kissing, scratching to just do it, do it now. We finished, sitting upright again, rearranging clothes, smiles at the old couple who had pulled up to share their thermos of tea and sandwiches as they stared at traffic. We giggled at them, their blank faces, wondering if they’d seen, heard or even cared. I drove on into the city and now this seems one of the very few memories I hold of Colleen.
In the intervening years I had motorcycles, wild, dirty and clapped out things held together by wire, wishes and lack of wisdom. Girls would flock to ride on the back, wanting thrills and stops in quieter places, my first motorcycle and Kim asking to sit on it, leaving a damp patch as she gave me glimpses of heaven climbing back off it. She would want me to touch her but not ‘put it in.’ Her hands small and delicate as she unzipped me late at night on country roads urging me to go faster and faster as those pretty hands reached around to drive me crazy. I would stop blinded by the pain in my balls and lust, her face crooked by the joy she built and controlled, she kissing me as my seed flew to the ground. Her eyes glistening at power she knew.
There were those who came to parties with others but wanted wild rides as drinks burnt into them, whispering offers of blow jobs and more. I took all offers uncaring of others scowls all I wanted was the ease of pressure in my pants, somewhere to put it, respite until the next burn. There were those who swallowed and those who spit. Watching my sperm drop, elongate like chewing gum, dropping from leaf to leaf, branch to branch, in glow of headlight and post cigarette. Both mute gazing, fasci-nated by volume, elasticity and evidence of what had happened not seconds ago. I never saw her again, her boyfriend disgusted at our leaving together dumped her and I never knew where to or cared to put effort into the finding.
Those who swallowed seemed to do so silently, lips closed tight against escape, or gulping to draw down. Callow as I was I never wanted to kiss them afterward, though wanting with all I could not minutes ago, to kiss them now seemed to somehow bring contact with my own cum and that I didn’t want as much as I wanted them to…
In later times there were those who would make issue of this, forcing salty tongues into my mouth, asking in telling of what could the problem possibly be? These were the ones who didn’t make the second ride, the invite back home or other meetings. They always seemed the ones who wanted me to ride one handed, left hand clamped between their legs, caressing wetness and heat, urging to not stop until they came shrieking as we thundered through villages, lights turned down for the night.
Until one night, a local pub and Suzy. Sitting there with her man, drinking me in, eyes bright and shin-ing and he face turning away not wanting to see. Then he left and she came over, holding my hand, asking for name but asking for more with eyes half closed. The next I know she’s sitting facing me, legs open, asking if I like what I see? Her legs in black stockings and G-string pulled tight. She took me outside, hunger kissing and touching, pulling me toward a car, we get in. Her man sitting there, stiff and staring straight ahead, she telling me of him being gay, he doesn’t deny, my lust cooling in wonderment of crazy situations and what to do next. Suzy touching me again, pulling at belt, buttons and zip, holding hot cock in cooler hands, head dipping to take me in, sucking, rising, bobbing, fin-gers teasing at balls then squeezing base to pump harder, my hips pushing harder and faster gaining rhythm, only vaguely aware of him now as I feel sweet pain building to spurt into her mouth, she sucking to take every drop. Then sitting, buttoning, zipping up, he still staring ahead as if this mo-ment carried no charge for him. She mumbling to him if he was ok, he nodding, my part no longer needed for them, I begin to leave as she beckons him forward and begins to kiss. She’s giving me to him enters my head and I ran away. I’ve no idea if Suzy was her real name for I never wanted to ever see them again. The thought worries me still.
Thora shifting seats back to make room for my stiffy and her desire, catching my finger in the seat runner and losing all fire, stiffy and need but to nurse said finger, thinking luckily all blood had gone elsewhere. I’m such a wuss now in these times, retreating inside to safer places where once I could ignore pain to continue, being taken to hospital by friends after some pointless beating that youth takes and gives out. Checking out Jenny with the uninjured hand, feeling her fingers curling around me, getting the guys to find a wheelchair so we could fuck on the back seat, injured hand in the air to avoid further problems. Later they tell me they thought I was calling a cab with it. Jenny later naked sitting astride me as we drove past the police station, held up by the lights, looks of disgust from older people in the car alongside as I smirk back at the great pussy I’m getting, oh yeah. We drifted apart and she started dating the driver but he couldn’t find a driver to replay our scene, he still calls me on this now, many many years later. When the big bang goes into reverse it may be possible for us to go back, no matter how much we talk on this, until then, we can’t. Like my candle grown shorter by time the possibilities now are limited for these to happen again, no matter the pedant and his poverty ideas of discomfort of sex in cars, feeling is essence, complaints fudge that fine line be-tween reportage and consciousness, to tell from place misses the being there.
Enjoy.