Biodegradable Beauty

She's lusty
She's busty
She's bursting at the seams
She's overdosed on lentils
And macrobiotic dreams
She's got Tamari stains
Down the front of her smock
Trying to be a smart arse
With a a Chinese wok
She's a soya bean sensation
A dandelion delight
She's got a bearded boyfriend
And a basket on her bike
Biodegradable beauty
That's her bag
Animal exploitation
What a drag
She's sociopolitically painfully aware
Emancipated
Liberated
With a culinary flair
For cooking up reasons
For being out of touch
She's overdosed on Valium
And she doesn't care much
She's a leading exponent
Of the dignified retreat
Living in a world
Of unconditional defeat
She's wearing someone else's party frock
She's got rings around her eyes
She can't keep it together
No matter how she tries
She's tied up in Knots by R.D.Laing
A precarious balance of Yin and Yang
Yoga and Yogurt
Natural high
She doesn't want to change the world
She doesn't even try.

Hep Cat

Rah! Café music slick and slickening.
Cocktail cigarette smoke by the moment,
Thickening.
Wry smiles.
A world of conversation in every change.
Midnight loafers.
Riders of the range.

Clear cut, cut clean, variations on a theme.
Ten seconds outa date,
Wiped off the scene.
Mega metamorphosis, young has been.

Make up, made up, to be where it's at.
Zoot! Smooth!
Sleek as a cat.
Credit card credibility.
Jet lag resistant brains.

Culture shock. Shock on shock.
Taking curved rides on bull-nosed trains,
To exotic destinations,
Writhing in the glow.
Hep cat, feather in his cap.
Cool! A go go!
The music dies but the beat goes on,
And on and on and on and on.

Dear Sis, I Can't Sleep For The Sound Of Your Head Banging.

Dear Sis,

I can't sleep for the sound of your head banging
These walls are too thin in this world of ours
I can't sleep for the powers of castration in your eyes
Honed on the balls of the men you despise
.

Each Day to Ealing Broadway (II) : On Time

The streets are seeped with their chatter and noise
The morning cascade from the train ushers the men and the boys
As they vie for position at the head of the crowd
That emerges loud and a tremble from the station in Ealing
And the rush to the High Street that has them awake and feeling
Driven by self importance and reeling with pride
They hide their moments of indiscretion on the ride
To be "on time."
.

The Londoner
A working-class boy
Has his mind still locked in that shocked sentiment
That rattle and sound
As he rushes along the streaked street
And considers the urgency to be "on time."
.

In his mind
The petty things
Not the pretty things
.

In his heart
The fear
The hurt
And the grime
As each morning he runs from the train
To be "on time"
.

And the pain rises up from the depth of his soul
As he fears he may lose
Another job
Another goal
.

A service distinct
To the few
Has left limitations on what he can do
.

You boy!
You can work in a factory
Or a shop
People from these estates
Never go to college
So you just stop
That kind of thinking
Right now
.

Know your race
Be true
English working-class boy
Know your place
If you want to do well.
.

In London schools
Working-class boys are taught
To be good working-class boys
To be good factory workers
To work in a shop
To fiddle the books a little on the side
The working-class privilege
The ride humored and hidden
.

He makes it to the doorway
And that familiar smell
The street
The clothing
The gutter swell
The stench of the bins
The secret corners where the night before
Were committed unspeakable sins
.

His boss is there
As always
Before
To "open up"
To unlock the door
He is happy to see the Londoner arrive "on time"
For he too is a boy from the same streets
"You'll go far!" he jibes.
As he hides the stick by the till
With luck today
There will be no one to kill
.

Each Day To Ealing Broadway

The streets are streaked with the excretum
Of a thousand late-nighters
The caresses of industry and the morning chill
Have arrested the urge to kill
In the drunks that have spilled
Into the streets at closing time
And now sleep
.

The 7:30 tube train hussles girls
With shields against stares
That with lust peel to reveal
Shy and freshly showered young bodies
Whose language
Sitting cross armed and cross legged
Can leave only despair in the observing eye
And a rye dismissal
A rejection of the hunt
In the ignorant mind
That can only mutter in response
The phrase "Stupid cunt"
.

Morning ignorance inflicted on pretty bare flesh
Faces glares from the hardened and mature stress
Of women that have been there
The scars hardened in the innocent crushed
The absence of tenderness
In the face of the rushed
.

The tube carriage rage
That leaves the commuter's page for the day
With the tense portrait
Of the face that espresses hate
Because the girls cannot hide
From the lust of the ride
The demanding stares of the tube train ride
Each day to Ealing Broadway
.

This Is The Licentious

This is the licentious
The deep thrust of my morality
Inside the pleading
It makes me happy
The swollen hardness of it
Throbbing
.

This is the licentious
Playing with little girls
Listening to their ecstasy
It makes me happy
The dangerous artness of it
Screaming
.

This is the licentious
Those clever boys
Pointing at penisesses
It makes me happy
The stick and the boundary
Lying
.

This is the licentious
Cool white open thighs
I stand here between them
It makes me happy
My stick, your boundaries
Sighing
.

Conversations with Mary (II)

Naked white virgin mother of Christ appears in my dreams and
she prosecutes my soul with her appeals for release
.

Her screams awaken me in the darkness of the night and
I am surrounded by her bliss in the midst of the fight
.

I sweat the tears of angels that weep for her plight
I break the hearts of children stolen on that first night
.

I set myself in prayer as her glory fills the room and
she tells me of the children and
how she must ensure their doom
.

Her hand upon my head she pulls me to my feet and
I am held aloft in prayer before her bleeding eyes
.

The naked scars glare red and sore
The pain I feel from her once more
Burns tenderly across my skin
.

I am deaf
I can hear nothing
.

The silence ignores the slap of me against her skin
as she holds me to her
Yet I do not feel the touch of her and
I can see she does not feel the touch of me
by the scream that is in her eyes
.

She is again denied and
I awaken from the silence of my wet dream
weeping
.

The seed sticky upon my belly
Between my finger tips
I bring my fingers to my lips
To taste the moment
And in a sudden vacuum of silence it is stolen
.

I break the hearts of children stolen on that first night
I sweat the tears of angels that weep for her plight
.

Conversations with Mary (I)

She appears from nowhere
Naked white virgin mother of Christ
Nipples pierced, torn and bleeding
Blood streaming at the first light
And guided in the caress of tiny hairs
Rivulets cross the soft contrast of her skin
Finally gushing red from within her open thighs
A torrent of pleasure and lies
.

In that first light
I am erect
Swollen taut
Breathless
Caught
.

I claw at each moment
And careful commit
To careful memory
That caress
That scent
That taste
That sound
That sight that I see
Afraid that I may lose the mystery
.

She presses her flesh to me
And I am bloodied
Stained with her mystery
She whispers her calamity
In that cool bright light
In that morning light
In my conversations with Mary
.

In that deep dark blue
Of her eyes
The heavens have fallen
On this earth
She whispers her calamity
In the cool bright light
Of that morning
.

Her lips brush tenderness against my ear
I am lost and I am fallen
At the moment of her touch
And the shock of her tale
.

Mary comes from the Mediterranean shore
Where, she confesses, she has taken the manhood of her son
And in some divine incestuous draft
Has consumed his salty seed
And she has swallowed
She has swallowed
.

Her lips part at the sensuous memory
She clutches at me
She rubs the raw and bleeding quick of her against my thigh
In slow sighs and certain passion
She brings herself to the point of ecstasy
.

I am helpless
Raped, frozen and petrified
In the deep dark blue
Of her eyes
.

She is enraptured, tortured and tense
Condemned now to await the bursting storm
And driven to madness by it
She must wait that moment forever
The penalty of her pornography
And she whispers to me
Her calamity
"I am a Jewess," she whispers
"Condemned by the Romans"
"To wander this earth as a Goddess."
.

Possessed in her urgency
She whispers of the texture of his skin against her lips
Of the rise in each draft as she brought his seed into this world
In a soft and smooth song of beauty, of peace and of grace
.

In that first light
I am erect
Swollen taut
Breathless
Caught
.

And there
With her final gesture of rape
I am abandoned
I am left standing in despair
My seed upon the floor
.

A Little Mistaken Sympathy

The tittle-tattle times have left behind nothing but a dream
A little mistaken sympathy has nothing to do in the meantime
Her mind has been wracked by some misguided facts
An old friend has sold her
A small understanding, a "that's it" statement
From a girl lover who can pretend the world is like this
.

All this for a kiss in the dark
That leaves her in the park and crying
Her sighing in bed as she dreams of the sex she could be
Her trembling knee as her friend finds the key to her youth
All this for the proof of a delicate scene in a harem
Her fragility lies in the thoughts, not the thighs of her lover
.

A little mistaken sympathy is all she has left of the past times
Some rhymes she remembers a drunkard had told her at last
She cries in the moment, her passion dies as she thinks of him
Her friend raises her head at the foot of the bed and smiles
"I'd like a child" she whispers, as her friend wipes her lips of the issue
A dilemma of old but nothing a cold shower can't do
.

A glimpse of the past reveals the last sin that she knew
She is left with the clue of a young poet's words
A way he had shown her
She curls in the arms of her lover's feminine charms and remembers
It's all very nice but it isn't quite right she feels
There's something she misses
That all her lover's caresses can't heal
.

It's not the coarseness of man
Nor is it the dynamic tour-de-force of a man she's mislaid
She had paid for her appeal, with some zeal, at the male alter
It taught her the way she is now
It's the energy she laments
The creative power that meant she could yield
.

A little mistaken sympathy is only the compromise
She can't hide the way that she feels
She has tears in her eyes as the girl beside her denies her a word
And some forgotten phrase a poet had made
Could reveal her absurd discontent
"I've made love with more girls like you than men," his bitter comment
"But then fashion dictates" he says
She hates what he means but he seems to have been here before
.

Her friend sighs in resignation
At the doubt in the young woman's eyes
She knows of the French Café assignation that disturbs with its lies
It hurts to feel the hesitation in the hand on her skin
The harlequin dances on their libidinous whim
A secret sexual pantomime as the mannequin dies
It hurts to feel the way her body shivers as she cries doubt on the pillow
The ladies boudoir is empty they say
.