As the sweet sweat of roses in a still,
As that which from chafed musk-cats’ pores doth trill,
As the almighty balm of th’ early East,
Such are the sweat drops of my mistress’ breast,
And on her brow her skin such lustre sets,
They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets.
Rank sweaty froth thy Mistress’s brow defiles,
Like spermatic issue of ripe menstruous boils,
Or like the ****, which, by need’s lawless law
Enforced, Sanserra’s starved men did draw
From parboiled shoes and boots, and all the rest
Which were with any sovereigne fatness blest,
And like vile lying stones in saffroned tin,
Or warts, or weals, they hang upon her skin.
Round as the world’s her head, on every side,
Like to the fatal ball which fell on Ide,

Or that whereof God had such jealousy,
As, for the ravishing thereof we die.
Thy head is like a rough-hewn statue of jet,
Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set;
Like the first Chaos, or flat-seeming face
Of Cynthia, when th’ earth’s shadows her embrace.
Like Proserpine’s white beauty-keeping chest,
Or Jove’s best fortunes urn, is her fair breast.
Thine’s like worm-eaten trunks, clothed in seals’ skin,
Or grave, that’s dust without, and stink within.
And like that slender stalk, at whose end stands
The woodbine quivering, are her arms and hands.
Like rough barked elm-boughs, or the russet skin
Of men late scourged for madness, or for sin,
Like sun-parched quarters on the city gate,
Such is thy tanned skin’s lamentable state.
And like a bunch of ragged carrots stand
The short swol’n fingers of thy gouty hand.
Then like the Chimic’s masculine equal fire,
Which in the Lymbecks warm womb doth inspire
Into th’ earth’s worthless dirt a soul of gold,
Such cherishing heat her best loved part doth hold.
Thine’s like the dread mouth of a fired gun,
Or like hot liquid metals newly run
Into clay moulds, or like to that Etna
Where round about the grass is burnt away.
Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more,
As a worm ******* an envenomed sore?
Doth not thy feareful hand in feeling quake,
As one which gath’ring flowers still fears a snake?
Is not your last act harsh, and violent,
As when a plough a stony ground doth rent?
So kiss good turtles, so devoutly nice
Are priests in handling reverent sacrifice,
And such in searching wounds the surgeon is
As we, when we embrace, or touch, or kiss.
Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus,
She, and comparisons are odious.

The warp of time,
a memory so refined
and pigmented
that it sits naked

and parboiled;
cradled in your mind.
My baby, you cry
‘oh, what is this division

that has cast us so apart?’
Time. Time and tremors
and the absence of lusture
in our lives.

I kiss the scars of our past.

The heady punch of whiskey,
and the overspill
from your father’s ice machine.
I remember it well.

And, my friend;
the cigarettes in the park,
the first time we split
and cut school together.

I remember it well.

Sat cross-legged
in the supermarket aisles
or else
mistaken for lovers

by the strangers on the streets.
Half-right and half-witted
we fell into the role
with a bumbling

grace. Bless yourself
with the compliments
you know I have for you.
Remember them well

whilst I kiss the scars of our past.

Oh, isn't this a sorry state ?
We must no longer salivate,
For food that's deemed unfit to eat,
Like burgers, pizzas, and red meat.
Throw all your frying pans away
But don't forget your five a day
Forget about pate de fois
Just eat mange tout and petit  pois
Without it Chinese food's not great
That mono-sodium glutinate
Remember if you feel forlorn
There are those strips of tasteless quorn.
Don’t be a meat barbarian
Become a vegetarian.
From early childhood, through my teens,
I gagged on all those ghastly greens.
And when I close my eyes I see
Those parboiled spears of broccoli.
How could I possibly forget
Stuffed aubergine and baked courgette?
I am and will be evermore
An unrepentant carnivore.
Con carne with rice? now, don’t be silly
You need a plate of three bean chilli.
I must confess, it’s not long since
I ate a bowl of proper mince.
O, what is life so full of care,
When we can only stand and stare
At treacle sponge and drizzle cake
And ice cream with a chocolate flake.
Next, will the nation’s favourite dish
Of greasy chips and battered fish
With mushy peas on top be banned
In England’s green and pleasant land?
And in the village bakery
Can we still buy cream cakes for tea?

No butter on my toast or muffin?
No crackling, no more sausage stuffing?
As each day passes how I dream
Of scones with jam and clotted cream.
Should I eat fries and a Big Mac?
Will that bring on a heart attack?
Shall I really come to grief
From Yorkshire pudding and roast beef?
Is it true that I might die
From eating steak and kidney pie?
Has it really come to this?
So many things to give a miss.
It’s time for take-away again
A spicy Singapore chow mien
I'm hungry, I could eat a horse
with chips and sweet and sour sauce
So many choices drive me crazy
Now I'm thinking beef jalfrezi
With pilau rice and nan bread,too
Or, maybe a chicken vindaloo.
Then to finish with, I think,
Some ice cream and a fizzy drink.
Then maybe later, if you please,
Some biscuits with some stinky cheese.
Then, though I really I didn’t ought
I’ll wash it down with vintage port.
People like me are branded fools,
Who never did obey the rules.
Am I so foolish? Pray, do tell
I’m nearly eighty, and quite well.
Maybe I eat foods I should not
But am I bothered?,not a lot.
“Eat and enjoy” is what I say
And live to eat another day.
Today I have no time for sorrow,
True, I might not wake tomorrow.
If I do then I will treasure
All the things that give me pleasure
I never could get sentimental
For breakfast a la continental
I'll get up slowly,take my ease.
And breakfast?  Cooked, full English, please.

Copyright @ W. F. Randle May 2020