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Sing for me my sweet dream,
Of dawn with you beside me.

Sing for my lullaby,
Of nights with your touch on my skin.

Sing for me my dark demise,
Of love that’s met with derision.

Sing for me my hearts cold grave,
Of death, slow and full of pain.
Drip drip,
Rivulets,
Swarming silver drops,
Like rivets on cold metal,
But you are hot.

Perspiring,
Burning,
Crazy lady runs,
Chasing her own 24 inch waist,
Fighting fat.

Lycra leotard,
Labelled,
Fashionista fitness fetish,
Wanting every eye to desire her,
Dehydrates,
Sizzles,
Drizzled,
Expires.
Stephen Moore Jul 29
Click,
Slick,
The whir of Jenny,
Tinny Jenny on ball bearing wheels.

A slick *****,
Clicks his fingers,
Jenny glides to his side,
Pen and paper in hand.

Jenny purrs,
LEDs wink under false lashes,
Mechanoid pretence at femine,
Tips a wink and lifts a steel leg under tin foil skirt.

“Your order Sir”, she chirps,
As Slick **** ***** an eye at aluminium thigh.

“Chips, silicone chips”, he replies,
Jenny’s circuits fry,
Dumb waitress cry’s light oil from glass eye.

Slick *****,
Rick,
Laughs as Jenny’s electronic whine murmurs incoherent bleeps,
Systems down,
Fuses blown,
Jenny’s memory erased.
A cyber ballad
Stephen Moore Jul 28
Nursing cracked paper backs and dusty reference works,
Softly uttered beauty,
Topped by brown bun glows in alabaster skin,
Bespectacled,
She whispers,
Quiet please.

Words slip through fingers,
Stretched,
In constrained eroticism,
A country woman in tweed.

Her passing stamp,
Over a pristine white sheet,
beckoning,
“return”.

Reading her unspoken words,
A chapter opens,
I succumb to her prose,
Love,
I suppose.
A restrained sensuality is somehow more intoxicating than something more brash. Someone who’s life is order and system, I imagine, contains the makings of collapse into blissful release.
Stephen Moore Jul 27
Council coin counter padlocks the  door,
**** here no more they pronounce.

The lady Mayoress of 1952’s dreams are dead,
How she simpered,
Cutting the municipal ribbon,
Beckoning flys to open for her creation.

Now,
Coffeers in the red,
Fred from the chrome door plated department of the WC’s, bolts the whole fancy and flys zip back up.

Brexit ******* means no exit from our miserly mendacity in the face of civic decline.

“You can **** in your own home”, the local Wig proclaims,
Fiscal pressure means a motion that stops your motions mate.

The council bids your poohs adieu and asks you to refrain from complaint.
Stephen Moore Jul 20
Write your tiny feet off till your broken limbs fix
in some chronic cracked atrophy,

Your words ache with the hurt of someone who
fell through the cracks in your fractured life.

Write your scrawny hands off till arthritic joints fix
in some withered locked paralysis.

Your words drown the the ache from she
who your tiny mind fails to move beyond.
Stephen Moore Jul 19
Moon maddened,
Spoon with me my Luna,
On a blood Moon July,
You and I,
Cry as we die in ecstasy.
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