jumps out of bed what have you done with my ******* she says I’m late for work they’re on the floor next to my socks if I remember correctly last night ..
the castle on the hill is a ruin still ruing the day when it fell but I doubt there’s a case now for suing worth pursuing although I suppose one can never tell
last time I wrote a poem that was any good was on the late lamented deep underground poetry site about an elderly woman on the bus who offered me a boiled sweet, I thought, but no, thanks ..
the first time we met I loved her face but I fancied her legs and I know that’s sexist and objectification but we’ve been married for thirty two years so who cares
just recently discovered christina rossetti on a second hand book stall down the market there were others shouting their wares so much louder, but who cares
love museums full of stone age artefacts, the odd roman sandal or two and victorian pottery, and all those insects skewered beneath glass cases not solved by pulling faces at what our ancestors got up to
just a glove, which everyone takes off with well honed mimicry, knuckles exposed, brittle ***** in their lack of symmetry, groaned as they all have a hand in correctly mocking all the above