Low flow the high blow

Low blow the high flow

Trip the tease that strips to please

Low flow the high blow

Waters edge the bather’s pledge

Strip to please the tease that trips

Waters pledge, the bather’s edge

Low flow the high blow

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Come to terms

I’d forgot to grieve

Got up to leave

A mumbling stumbling goodbye

I’d not taken the time to cry

Too too busy not asking why

Caught up in my own insensitivity

Reading some other folks words

Looking at nature, studying birds

Wallowing in the following wind

Now it’s time to come to terms

Wash those wicked feelings, terminate the germs

Wish you all the best, with sincerity

I’m in the country and visiting the city

Writing and reading, words full of self-pity

Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes

The world has become my oyster

That’s a tricky one, choices can loiter and be foisted

So I’ll catch their word, hoping that’s not too absurd

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Thought transference

You thought your way into my thoughts

And you fought your way right out again

It was your thinking not your drinking

That propped me, stopped me from sinking

Your critical, cryptic crossword completion

Revealed, your subtle sense of reason

And your letters, your letters though sparse and thin

Your written words sold me, fever rising, muse within

Your turn of phrase with unnerving staring gaze

Razor sharp, cutting; may I mention tension raised

The gifts you gathered, the detail mattered

Thoughtful choices, so so soft yet carefully scattered

Even now on leaving

Misbelieving there’s no articulated deceiving

Your thoughts I’m holding high

In my sinking, slinking, thinking

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At the dogs again

The steam room and the sauna

They are my racetrack, my sweet fleeting fauna

The swimming pool and the meditation star

They are my cigarette, my whisky, my pimp, my bar

Now this simple phraseology, this word psychology

This is my style, not yours, for that I make no apology

The tidy quiet room; laid back jazz and soulful blues

This is my non-hovel, I have no desire to grovel

Yet I read your works and marvel at your creation

Your escapades; words, to which I bear no relation

But just to put your mind at rest, in you I did invest

In the Jacuzzi; the plumes sure do dress the nest

The volva, the vulva caressed by volcanic water vests

Tattoos on thighs open your eyes, stir feelings blest

And there are girls there with their mothers

And ladies going on girls, there with their lovers

The lecher stretching don’t take much fetching

When there’s so much skin, skin waving, shaving skin

For inspiration and amusement, when in lent

The spa’s the place to rent

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Posing Nude

She more than made an effort, her figure creator. Every morning not yawning, but slipping on the tummy vibrator. Melba toast was the most that passed those sweet red lips. Palates, yoga, stretching, swaying, swaying those swinging hips.

The artists and the painters they did not restrain her. Posing nude for her life class and for her figure friend dude. Running on the moors, treading timeless, line-less steps. Pumping iron, and swimming on, down the full length lane.

Fully spread under summer sun, tanning, figure slamming. Cramming in the cranberry juice and the fat free yoghurt. All of this to manage the refrain between size twelve and size fourteen

Skin supplements, perpetual E45. Conscientiously keeping her beauty, keeping beauty alive. The hairdressers kept moving, they were kept on their toes. A trim, a bob, no perm, for my brunette, well trimmed rose.

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Smothered lovers

Naked

Never

Except forever

When we were lovers

Together we discovered

We smothered our bodies with love and lust

Naked

Cleverly

We revealed

Our concealed others

Together we stroked and smoked

Hoped without talk to recover our lust and love

Naked

Together

Under natures covers

We were, weren’t we, we were smothered lovers

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Wobbly

Wobbly

Sleeping together

Keep your distance

Close your eyes to realise

The futile situation

A brutal station

Mutual pain

Acrid Rain

Singles dance

Lost romance

Do not touch

Do not chance

Being kind

Keep a cool mind

Calm emotions

Steady nerves

Don’t stir it up

Do not stir it up

So tired

Little time left to sleep

Anxieties awakened

Temperance shaken

Sleeping together

Oddly

Wobbly

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Wasted Place, Sometime

Somewhere on the M5

Around Taunton way I’d say

The morning after nothing had happened

The blue, clear blue sky

Matched the mood of release

Relief from those scattered sheets

That dripping tap

Shrinking threads and wasting washers

Now I remember

Before Bristol for sure, the afternoon before

The night when nothing happened

The grey sea mist from the estuary

Matched the mood of doubt, unknown quarry

Set up for the fall, recall the previous dishes.

That silken strap

Silken threads and tummy squashes

Now I remember

Down among the Chilterns

The evening, the actual evening, the non event

If it meant anything, It meant nothing to me

The wind drifted, the rainbow lifted

Lifted on moor and gorse

No recourse, no negotiation, a stated situation

Inclined by inclination I’m listening to Bukowski

You’re watching television, you’re watching TV

Now I remember

Some place obscure

Wasted time for sure

Sex, whore, wife, life

How would it feel to think your wife a whore

Lore would life suffice such a trice

Would the expectation stride in tight

At the fleeting sight

Of the translucent gossamer light

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Donald Shimoda

Just along the A5

Past Weston Park

An early morning drive

Ripe to be surprised

Inner self or outer self

Collective unconscious

Or something deeper

Daffodils in bloom deep within

The sunken soul

Like a ghost

Or a drowned man floating to the surface

The movement was a continuum

Without jar or jolt, the rising

Om, Om, Om for a lost love

Later, in peace, quiet, calm, tranquillity

Om cannot resurrect

From the pit of the body to the tip of the mind

There is no traffic to carry the urn of any kind

The ashes have flown on the wind

Unable to rescind the cindered lingered candle

A flickering, flickering, sickening, failing glow

Extinguished, vanquished, decayed

A dying atmospheric orb

But it did happen

And for that I thank more than I can ever know

I write these words of thanks

To tell you, of what I do not know

Is that how the flower feels in pollination

Some union with an Albion of kind

Was it received or reciprocated or was it bounded

Then bandaged; was it unrequited love

Like the kite blown along the breeze

Or Donald Shimoda in timeless flight

It is a Messiah’s handbook which helps me discover

To recover the greetings of souls; souls meeting

Greeting together as deep below; below as above

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