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Pleasure Ground

the small of her back                                                                                                                  a silky polygon

sits in a painting                                                                                                               of a Gris or a Braque

                                                                 on a still afternoon

                                                   Venus' dimples

                                                                 on the small of her back

                                                                              sway into an obtuse angle

a metronome pulse                                                                                                   eighty beats per minute

inside a topography                                                                                of coral-lined tablecloths

                                                      glasses embrace

                                           almond and carob liqueur

                                                      the carafe d'eau looks on

                                                                 wall edges facing plates

windows reflect grounds                                                                          outside, tobacco streets

meander sober buildings                                                                                 and the next metro

                                                      from pore to pore

                                           like punctuation

                                                        grounds pleasure

                                                                  with tender geometry

Shoreditch, October 2015


Ah! Legs entwined this blue morning,

pumpkin walls, sheets, curtains, windows

we gaze at spires, finger papers, sit in TXs’, mouth May-fairs

city-soles in a hurry syruping pavements

an array of faces


new kingdoms, or old for sale or to let

fresh bread rolls, tired wooden shutters stir a makeover,

turf against turf

brick against brick

bespoke spaces sit on seized grounds


as Murdock’s barbers groom the Owl and the Pussycat

Albion’s omelettes feed domestic hunger,

a breather in the park clears away tension

whatever it takes

todays sweet talk tomorrows

Twelve inky years


That                 night


twelve inky years and 

a violet suit ago


amid lapels, white blouse, laced collar 

your body sapped by the eight-thirty-breath 

was called to leave 

gathering the sound of the last tide


       Nothing            was     planned

       everything       was     planned




old and young, witnesses once again,

as the final flicker went missing past the golden hour        

into thin October air, groans escaping 

the frayed ropes of womanhood




towards the next ride, 

your body folded into slim-chances

muted lips, pastel skin, a country unpossessed


That                 night


twelve inky years and

a violet suit ago


       Everything       was     planned

       nothing            was     planned

A dash of summer


have you tasted

the bounty

she offers?


delicacies on golden plates

laid out on soft green beds

served daily


just for you


flavours of dew

unfurl in zesty dawns  

mosaic murals

teasing your every whim


of course!


you do so, 


and night

your senses

swim across town,

you relish

the warm season's

palate on your skin,

ravishing sounds

of Pink Martini,

echoing laughter

into sizzles of time


a frenzied you


a frenzied you

savouring every o’clock

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