She’s Leaving Home

Joe’s previous evening
Had been a stupendous
And tremulous occasion
Joe thought he was not the first
But that did not matter

For what Joe had learnt
In such a short
Yet delirious space of time
Would last him
For far more than this lifetime

She had left
Before the morning light
Without a sound
Without a goodbye
But she had left Joe her legacy

And on the coffee table
She had left something else
Joe did not notice...

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Art It Is

Was it Rembrandt
Vermeer, or de Bray
Where the cloth always appeared
Softly folded, lapped as layers
Of skin-like fatty tissue

If it had been the surrealism of Dali
You would see the distorted shape
Take on another reality
But here, in Joe’s room
The clay pots hang with a purpose

Without of decoration, simply perforated
Perforated for the air to move
For the testicles to breathe
His emblem of the love...

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Girl

More importantly
Even now
Through the half-light of the dance floor
He could see her eyes sparkle
The girl from earlier

She was, or so it appeared
She was still alone
Was it true he wondered
Could she really
Could she truly not leave him alone

The lights went up
Now they were outside
In the warm night air...

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Not That Temperance Lot

Weatherspoon’s
As well as opening for breakfast
Also had a dancing area

A sop perhaps to obtain a longer licence;
One which goes from the early morning
Back into the early morning

Nevertheless
The dance area was a valuable attraction
A Venus flytrap of sorts

To encourage all the musk-laden trade
That could be mustered; the dance floor
Was popular with the Juke-Box students

The last dance came towards a close...

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Class Apart

Joe also knew intuitively
That these new visitors
Wouldn’t be like the wealthy tourists of old

Those selfish transitory leisure classes
Who came here simply to be served
Who came here for their pampered egos

To be preserved in aspic
With no care for those who served them
They were well prepared, happy

Happy to move on
To move swiftly on...

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