Sunday, 15 January 2012

Codpiece

For Megan

Codpiece

So, fat with mead and humble,
to the bedchamber we stumble,
to partake in lustful fumbles
there upon the bed of straw.
And my lord, with fingers itching,
moves to loosen all the stitching
of his codpiece which is twitching
and to the floor does fall my jaw.
For my lord's professed protrusion
is naught but an over-stuffed illusion
and he is under much delusion,
if he thinks his member great.
There is nothing worth the shock
of finding oneself under-cocked
so my chastity belt stays locked
until Sire's pants regain my trust.


Saturday, 14 January 2012

Twenty Pence Venus


A bit of a departure from my usual style here. I was trying to experiment with varying metre and rhyme - beat-poet style! Let me know what you think.

Twenty Pence Venus

There's a gentle, subtle poetry
in the flesh that folds around your knees.
A glowing, gold rotundity:
your nudity's not rude to me.
You may think you're imperfect,
and the nose job might be worth it
but the skin you're in's a sure fit –
even your moles have got great hair!
And you may think that I'm simple
if I praise you for your pimples
and the cellulite-y dimples
which grace your ample derrière.
But it's those little inconsistencies
that make up your appeal to me;
skin speckled with brown freckles
and a scar or two but see,
it's easy to be choosy
when you look at models who seem
to be made of air and pubic hair
and skin stretched taught like wire.
They're all geometric corners
and you'd think that they would warn us
that these women, though beguiling,
are a species that is dying
and the body shape ideal is just a closely guarded ruse.
So believe me when I tell you
that as ladies we'd do well to
stop listening to the magazines
that say we must lose weight.
So fuck you Cosmopolitan
with the botox and the collagen.
You're not the sum of your fake boobs –
what counts is in your mind.