A limerick writer from Kent
Found his pencil all crooked and bent.
Though ******, licked and chewed,
It still remained skewed,
(Even stretched to its fullest extent).

You didn't get a valentine
Nor a supermarket rose,
We never sipped that vintage wine
Or read romantic prose.

You left before I told you,
I threw away my chance
To have you and to hold you:
I’m ******* at romance.

The end was tranquil
Her eyes remained open wide
To mirror my tears

My Vellum

Alluring and demure
In your virginity
Never yet
Creased nor crumpled
Your tight young corners
Remain stiff and pert
In their newness
Your long lithe sides
Tense for my careful touch
Lest blood be spilt

My gold nib
I dip
In midnight ink
Piercing its surface skin
And lift

It drips
One

Two

Black
Secrets
Back to their bottle

My hand is poised
Over your pristine smoothness
And with calm precision
I carve broad majuscules
That twist and cut
To hairlines of breathtaking
Intimate intricacy

Quick teasing serifs
Long lingering descenders
Strokes of tactile
Joy

Then stand back

Empty
In wonder at
Your calligraphic beauty

She headed to bed for the night,
And proceeded to switch off the light.
Then she tossed and she turned
Till the sheets were well-burned
And her duvet began to ignite.


© Marcus Lane 2010

She slumps in sleep
Paws clasped prayer-like
Dream-dozing eyelids a-simmer

A spasm-triggered flesh flick
An ear-alert to a tremorous tick
Crisp-dry nose with involuntary sniff
Old dog breath brewing brown toothed whiff

With pain weary grunt
She heaves her lumpy bulk
Onto shaky splayed legs
That hobble and limp

Catches my eye
With a puppy-pleased glint

Wags

.... and pees

I fear the way you love me:
That tender-touching kiss
Seducing me to nightly
Sink deep in your abyss.

Those smooth caresses take me
To places that I dread,
Your cunning fingers rouse me
To plan such lies ahead.

But while we writhe and tumble
In lust's hypnotic hold,
I fear the final stumble
That will see the truth unfold.