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Dining with the devil Just him and meDining with the devil by ~NostalgiaOfMud
sipping tea and nibbling cakes
from Wedgwood plates
like dowagers: He is my friend,
a ready wit to understand and whisper
soft approvals. We never disagree.
He takes his payment
by degrees so small
I barely feel the loss.
There's comfort in the devil,
comfort in his voice.
Insomnia At night when the streetsInsomnia by ~NostalgiaOfMud
lay bare I rise up in my night attire
a poly cotton Dracula
and tap a vein of mundane care,
of slight anaemic faux despair,
of whining pale ephemera:
Sleepless under Mars, under
vast dark archipelagos
of shifting shattered stars.
My Wolf Age waits,My Wolf by ~NostalgiaOfMud
a blue rinsed wolf
beyond the gate,
poodle permed
but still with all her teeth.
I fear age more
than famine, pestilence and war –
those far off
third world predators
that stalk the news –
my wolf
wears granny shoes
and a cardigan
to save her bony shoulders
from the draught
but her teeth are sharp.
No-one forgets a good teacher "Listen to me or I'll break your legs"No-one forgets a good teacher by ~LazyLinePainterJohn
- Steve Thompson
Dear Sir. Not sir. It's automatic.
Sorry Steve. Dear Steve. I'm fed
On seven years of autocratic
Tiffinisms: "genuflect
to teachers." Seven years' emphatic
Faire-sans-dire still in my head.
Dear Steve. Your style was more dramatic
you taught life and art instead:
Stoppard, condoms, mathematics,
goatee beards and Berthold Brecht
and Bigmouth Strikes Again, such is
what you gave us, plus the threat
of a half a term on crutches
for ignoring you. Dear Steve - respect.
The Dress She Wears The Dress She WearsThe Dress She Wears by ~sculptorchic
It rides the slow curve of her hips
pulls tight against them as she walks
her gait confined to conscious steps.
Not long enough to be lady-like,
too long to be whorish, it falls
heavily over tired thighs, licking
the tops of her knees. The neckline
plunges. A greedy vice, it squeezes
the bulk of her heavy breasts up
until they spill out for all to see.
Its coarse and jealous-green fabric
scratches her most delicate places
rubbing them raw, I know, until
her skin weeps a salty pink.
Made before we were born, it is
given us by our mothers and theirs
before. It suits us just the same.
The dress she wears
Sta.sh
