Furthermore, began St Anne by the Sea,
And a spotty Doctor Newcastle got down on one knee.
I hear the old folk *******.
I hear ducks up the chimney.
I'm eating hymn books and confetti;
Sweating mud now.

The very nearly possible was there;
Lovely laughing Uncle April was there;
The plump thigh from your thrilling island was there also;
The Balsam Boy,
The basil canary,
The mustard customer from Rhyl

We dated a wasting blue on the old shopping hill.
You had been with the Superintendent of cream
In the back rooms of Matthew August Ltd.
In private I was brown because of my tinnitus.
My child was only half written
According to those forty enormous Liverpools,
According to those three vaginal cannonballs.

Horace Horace and his delicious old porridge was the inability setting.
Thought clumsiness was in fashion back then.
Upstairs could hear the downstairs *******.

Now mock Tudor glands have all the critical opportunity
And hands pull on my circular feet.
Glum songbirds mingle in the dissapointment larder
Of the Transport Office between Mr Kane and his ***** milk.
The tutted Beryl train accounts for neither the sad 13,
Nor the burgundy drums of Cologne.

The dark doodad brigade broke the Parisian child pipes,
So now the garnet ***** are a very dusty parcel indeed.
And Sir Billick’s magnificent bottom of forty years has beckoned.

What delicious and capable spondees!
What fruits we acquired for Captain Mary!
We remember nothing therefore.

Now we must wash our spectacles
And take sympathetic musical suggestion for our tugged Nightingale methods.

It is a love poem when I am making love to you, a soliloquy of silence but for your murmurs and your moans. The stanza of your shilouette, the verses of your curves. An iamb means I love you dearly, a dactyl that you are delicious, spondees and trochess of tenderness and passion. There are rhymes and rhythms when we lie upon each other, an alliteraration of kisses and hugs, caesuras to catch out breath. Our love-making is a chiasmus, making and taking tortuous turns until white sheets and yellow pillows fall on hardwood floors. Caresses precede onomatopoetic sighs that become love songs. Anaphoric thrusts need no explication, only the silence and solitude of joy.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS