oooh ahhh
oooh ahhh
oooh ahhh...

aching buttocks
aching thighs
unseen crowds
unseen skies
between the shoulders
lakes of fire
stinging eyes
on the spinning tyre
calves and heart
will explode
grip the handles
eat the road
kilo meters
whirring chains
mountain passes
grassy planes
the body's racked
the body begs
pressing down
on un-stretched legs
far beyond
un-melted snow
want to stop
but miles to go...

oooh ahhh
oooh ahhh
oooh ahhh...

The wind it tackles
the leaves and the litter
the leaves and the litter
the leaves and the past.

the sun it is drying
the paint and the puddles
the paint and the puddles
the paint of the past

I saw the bend coming
the bend was approaching
the bend in the road
that soon would be passed

I saw her look sadden
she feared I was leaving
the leaves and the litter
the pain and the past.

words and foto Tommy Carroll

re-edit

week-ends
week-ends
work-a-day
book-ends

Her hand was young
and open.
A generosity
of spirit in its
loops and curves
And in closing:
'with compliments'
and her name 'Nina'
I envisaged an x.

"Konnichiwa"
A voice calls out,
foreign, disembodied.
Once again but louder-
"konnichiwa!"

I walk dripping from the shower
to the bedroom.
Upon my bed a fresh white towel
lay folded and
upon that my 'phone.
Vibrating,
It's her.

Two women in my room
-one does the bidding
of the other-
The ring-tone
female and Japanese.

I place the 'phone
upon the dresser,
take the towel
from off the bed
and dry myself.
I lay upon the fresh sheets
and sigh.
She calls again.

The voice enquires:
"Konnichiwa"
the tone becoming
increasingly irritable.
I stare at the ceiling.
She calls again.
I turn my back on her enquiry
and lay staring
with my eyes closed
waiting...


re-edit
words and foto Tommy Carroll

I washed her
from my pillow-slips.

In a white plastic bucket
I soaked away her body's breath,
and with bleach removed
the evidence she had  left.

We snatched the time
to make our marks
with sweat and
firm commitments.

The stains on stolen sheets
proved easier to erase
than those she ground into
the fabric of my room,

I watched as
traces of our time
together
turned the water dark.

Touch:
and upon touching,
let a wanton look
dress your skin,
pressing its wants-
as in a gentle grip-
shaping my tongue,
to press tales
of soft request,
and taste the very giving
response of that same skin,
adorned and to touch
its naked candour.