The trained mutt-
the sort taught to sniff out explosives,
drugs or the smell of cancer-
was on a lighter mission today,
with a young love, blissfully unaware of Fido’s objective,
who had caught the wind and a smell-
nostrils flared and primed- had set off
at greyhound speed, like a whippet stirred,
heading in her direction.
Perhaps it had spotted its own, beyond her?
Perhaps a prized rabbit?
The speed it was going.
It had picked something up
and it wasn’t letting go.
Got you, it pants,
stopping abruptly in front of her before
making its final move;
into position and lock.
Its snout fitted and her thighs became its vice.
Snugly slotted, this puzzle piece muzzler
told her story-
outstanding questions answered.
Half a minute is an hour to this crimson statue,
rooted to the spot, in shock.
Snout didn’t move either; ears flick back its owner’s far off calls.
Neither did it need to look, to see where she had come from;
behind her, the fields rolled on and
into the horizon.
it could smell the sweet smell of grass, caressing her nape and
tickling loose button holes.
It also knew
she had a crotch.
This is my prayer to chocolate, cake and to all things in between.
I Want Too Much Please.
One glimpse and I’m crippled and incapable.
I am a resigned prisoner
to a melting, molten, choc lava,
imagining the imperial silky textures, slinking and flowing treacle-like; down, down,
down into, and including the belly of my thoughts;
taking swift control with sugar gilded reins.
How can I concentrate?
Shut down by this culinary bling?
This sensuous spatchcock display of just one slice
could not be more audacious:
Cherries-bitter aches of sweetness.
Cake-yielding, holding, holding, moist and tender.
And cream; submission’s ecstasy.
Yet it can be more audacious and cruel:
To me, it’s a foot soldier on the battlefront fighting
anorexics, health tsars and dieters.
To me, it’s the Missionary from the ‘Chocolate Belt’,
or a zealous fanatic, sure to be met in Heaven by
Seven succulent adorned gateaux.
To me, it is all Four Horses of the Chocolips,
and so death by chocolate.
So a word of caution, if I may:
Succumbing to the sweet flesh of desire
is a carnal sin.
Sex on a plate-
or should I make that palate?
‘Back Burner’ Bob
and ‘Back door’ Betty were a class
battle-axe double act with a knack
and a ruse, that they mused;
perfected and tailored,
mastered and practiced.
A ‘hit’ on retailers.
Slip into the store
where she’d turn on the charm,
and he’d cruise in with calm, while
collectively, collecting the coins and the cash
swiftly swooped and then stashed.
Daring and damaged, deceiving, disarming;
Betty crooned and staff swooned as she-
while whirling her version of the Dervishes Twirl-
extracted the erupting key from her ‘heave’,
pick pocketed previously from pearl.
Staff swayed, sang; stuporous and side tracked,
as two turning coats, executed their exit, endowed,
in the midst of giggling ‘gals and falls.
Back at base, Bob
drags on a fag full
of wacky baccy.
His Cheshire cat beam and calm
oak smoked croaked tones,
that count the coins plus
before a cacophony of
cack coughing comes over;
soon soothed and settled
with the supping of scrumpy. While
‘Back Door’ Betty
spins the Whirling Dervishes Twirl,
one more time.
Just for the hell of it.
First: a hairline amber stretch,
with it’s spindly fibrous, ripening red hands,
massaging Earth’s rotating skin.
Earth becomes aroused; its jagged, rocky flesh sharp, piercing the belly of yellow, slit open.
Molten mellow bleeds on sepia then cast orange hues
on worm and soil, synonymous with sister sunset,
on and on, bleeding crushed diamonds and amber to glaze rocky outcrops and oceans,
on and on, to starch trees with shimmer and silhouette,
all wilfully succumbing to; arrested by the effects of light.
Leaves glisten. Translucent white beads, bulbous and pert, perch ready to drop,
landing bold translucent green.
Gifts from the belly of yellows beautiful sacrifice.