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He must have been lonely
between the love poems
and the easy women
and the rare
beautifully alive women
between the thighs
wrapped around his head
grinding against his mouth
tight as a muzzle
between the blood
and the beer
and the wine
and the ink
between the bottles
and the *****
and the bars
and the shots
between the wins
and the loses
and the horses
and the races
He must have been lonely
and in love with it
the misery of it
the cheap breath of it
the loneliness of love
and it must have been beautiful
and blind
and mad
and so so alive
Want to know
how to shatter me into a million pieces?

Shut me out

My first instinct will be to pound on the door
until my knuckles are bleeding

Then I'll kneel down and plead with you to let me in

Then will come the silence
it always comes

Because I don't want to be where I'm not needed

I will wonder what I did wrong
and hang my head in shame

Then I'll be gone

Because I would rather you wound me with your words
than **** me with your silence
Come with me
On a quest to the end
Of this chapter of my book.
Each page is ripped and wrinkled
Because sadness
Doesn't come with tissues.

The issues
Swirl around
In this snow storm.
You can hear it
When you're hair is my mouth
And your head
Lays on my heartbeat.
Can you feel it through the tissue?
My bones pop like fireworks
Dancing under the hope
That filled my lungs.
Hope couldn't float
On the ice crystals
That left this barricade
As I trek
Through this snow storm,

I wish this coffin
Would have room for one more
No not one more person,
Just the memories
That peer around
Every dream I am tortured with.

You see,
My mind is trying to find out
Why I took the plunge
And let you use my notes
On the test
On how to break my heart.

My eyes are dressed
In a nightmare black
So no one can see through them.
No one can see what you could.
The blinds are shut
And nobody is home
As I keep creaking around
This snow storm.
Another enchanting "Barry Hodges Memory" poem for you all!

O glorious Art Deco edifice, tucked away behind the 'Dilly!
In your near century of hospitality, how many millions of visitors
Must have thronged your rooms, meeting, greeting, eating, sleeping
And (need I specify the obvious?) ******* away the fleeting hours?
How sad it is to think that the dear Regent Palace has fallen victim
To the money-grabbing developers' philistine wrecking *****.

Rumour came to me in the Seventies that the ground floor cocktail bar
Had gained a somewhat , shall we say, *louche
Being frequented by ladies of the night and part-time gigolos;
And that the hustle and bustle of the reception area meant that
Staff would hardly notice if guests invited a newly made friend upstairs
For some horizontal entertainment, be it on a cash or ex gratia basis.

Several evenings, perhaps after a night at the theatre, I paid a brief visit
To the dimly lit bar, with its sophisticated black pianist tinkling out a tune
In the very best Casablanca tradition, perhaps even crooning a little ditty.
One summer night I recall I dropped in, probably post-prandially
More in hope than serious expectation, ordered an over-priced G&T;
And settled down to assess the odds on some casual leg-over action.

Much to my surprise I was soon joined by a large middle-aged blonde
(to a naive young chappie, any woman over 35 is no spring chicken);
She was Icelandic and big with it in the mammary department,
But not fat I hasten to add, just sturdy, like a splendid Wagnerian Valkyrie;
Yea, I knew she was gagging for it when she confided that, only last week,
She had shared l'amour with a young stranger in the Wienerwald al fresco.

I cannot recall much of our no doubt fascinating intellectual conversation
And I certainly can't remember her name, but I do know I readily acquiesced
To her generous invitation to participate in a glug of her duty free allowance
Within the intimate privacy of her spartan little bedroom on the seventh floor.
Delightfully, to my mild pleasure, our upwards journey in the crowded lift
Enticed her to caress my eager testicles in a heart-warmingly experienced way.

Over a malt whisky and, following an extended exchange of warm saliva,
We ended up stark ******* naked in the rather narrow single bed;
Sadly, my recollections of our coupling have gone the way of all flesh
(but my well-preserved diary for that year notes I gave her the works thrice)
And I do vividly remember wondering what time the Underground started
on Sunday mornings as I was no longer enamoured of her tobacco breath.

Now, dear reader, we come to the ****** of my night of Nordic nookie:
Just as the dawn's early light was filtering through the ill-fitting curtains,
My partner in lust informed me that she desperately needed a squirt
(I fear I omitted to mention that the RPH didn't run to en suite facilities)
And that, rather than struggle down the corridor to the communal bogs,
She intended to void her bloated bladder in the waiting washbasin.

She enjoined me to be a gentleman and to refrain from watching her
As she performed her toilette and I assured her, with a covert smile,
That I would not breach her urinary modesty. Thus I slyly observed her
Waltz over to the window and, with the assistance of a handy little chair,
Hoist her ample buttocks up on the basin and let fly her steaming ****;
O, what a romantic sound it made as it splashed onto the porcelain!

As I lay there, entranced by the sight of my piddling blonde Brünnhilde,
An unexpected sound intruded over the splatter of her seething waters:
O Jesu! Suddenly, in the veritable twinkling of an eye, the basin's supports,
Unequal to the unscheduled weight of the female Goliath squatting thereon,
Gave way and what's-her-name fell to the economically carpeted floor,
Screaming in fear, spread-eagled in ****-drenched shattered chinaware.

To say I was beside myself with mirth would be an understatement but,
Gentlemanly as always, I managed to pass off my gargled giggles
As evidence of gallant concern. As soon as common decency permitted,
I made my excuses and left the disconcerted dear to tidy up a bit.
But I will confess to emitting a huge howl of uncontrolled laughter
As I raced off to the nearest toilet (I too was bursting for a huge slash).
 Apr 2015 Nathan Cross
Mike Essig
Every step taken
contains the possibility
of an adventure,
when seen with
the heart and eyes
of an explorer.
- mce
 Apr 2015 Nathan Cross
Mike Essig
They all
want to hear you
sing of the light;
****** few
will listen
when the song
turns dark.
  - mce
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