With surgical precision
You perfected the incision
Of that poison-tipped tongue,
Like a dart.

My crippling indecision
Was slashed with cold derision,
Till self-belief was wrung
From my heart.

This door is shut fast
And I am locked behind it.
Never such freedom.

© Marcus Lane 2010

When the tide is high and the spray flies wild
And  storm-battered cliffs loom grey,
Gulls are flung like litter in the wind
Above the tossing boats in the bay.

Now grey-gloved fingers feel from afar,
A muffling shroud of fear,
For the mist's stolen in with a furtive glance
At the lighthouse winking on the pier.

The ******* surf on the shingle shore
Rattles like smugglers' bones
Stirring the dark and dreary depths
With gales of ghoulish groans.

Wrestling waves in a turmoil twist
Their heaving muscles in mounds,
And crash to a crescendo of spittle and spray -
A rejoicing of ocean sounds!

On this crisp white sheet
The mind will be moonlighting
Editing the day


© Marcus Lane 2010

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.

You need a smart Jag,
Not my Fiat.
(That was always the snag -
Now I see it.)

When we dine at The Ritz
I chew jerky.
You're all glamour and glitz -
While I'm quirky.

It ain't gonna work,
There's no maybe.
'Cause we'll both go beserk.

- Shall we, Baby?


© Marcus Lane 2010

Matchsticks wait in ranks
One quick strike and it's over
A brilliant death