Dripping ***, she stood there, completely unaware
That every man about her had turned around to stare.
For in her nubile innocence and when her red lips smiled
She was causing utter mayhem as distracted drivers piled.
The Postmen stopped delivering, Policemen stood agape,
Conductors missed their trolleybus and Superman his cape!
…And as she sashayed down the street leaving bedlam in her wake
And all the while her red high heels were causing earth to shake,
Perambulating gracefully, impossibly demure,
She sauntered down the causeway, with a loveliness so pure.
Whilst just behind and following, a ravenous hot mob
Of nature’s gift to manhood, all slavering at the gob.
Quite suddenly with a swish of skirt she swirled about and laughed
At the frozen apparition there immobile and aghast.
Acutely frozen with embarrassment at having looked so ****** absurd
They all dispersed their different ways without a single word.
“Bye boys” she chortled, with a devilment in play
With flick of skirt and toss of hair she turned and walked away.
Ha!

Marshalg
Laughing to myself at the silly old mating game we play.
Pukehana Paradise
14 April 2013

The cross that's carved deep
because
we have to keep a memento.

but I know without seeing
that someone is keying
the code in
forever
sticking the nails in.

Have you been to the place beyond
the place where you think
you can't face it?

it's somewhere behind me,
waiting to catch up and grind
me down doing a
left, right
left, right
marching off into the,
is that daylight?

Words fail me as the scales fall away
and the Dragon breathes fire across,
what was the name of that bay?

watching Morecambe on the
web cam
an old man on a trolleybus
going to the fayre.

Since childhood, I had a complex—my legs.
Even though I ran through the neighborhood,
through the techno district, the park, and Chekhov’s little house,
through the abandoned dairy factory,
climbed over the fence into the Fairy Tale Glade,
held my own in a game of tag,
I could change direction in an instant,
unexpectedly for whoever was chasing me.
Reaching out my hand, I’d glide away.

But that never stopped people from saying,
“God, you’re so skinny. Look at those legs.”
I hated summer—
not because of the heat, but because of the shorts.
Summer meant the boat beach, the green zone.
I could dive like a coffin, like a bomb,
sending up decent splashes.
The entrance near the boat station cost 3 hryvnias,
yet the local spot was free.
And there was a café nearby with music.
I remember they played The Doors.

I was 22, and I lived with those who didn’t love me.
I twisted the same ankle 4 times in 6 months.
December 21, 2012.
I tore my ligaments.
End of the world.

I had only started breakdancing a couple of months before,
had just learned the splits.
And then—on the snow, I nailed it.
The guys carried me under their arms.

I twisted my left ankle four times
because I wasn’t listening to it.
I was supposed to run—
but I turned back.

The fourth time was the scariest—
on flat ground, for no reason.
I thought I’d broken it.
The pain was endless.
Night. Emptiness.
The first trolleybus.
I barely made it,
leaning on a stick for support.

“Conductor, sorry, I have no money. Just one stop.”
“****, man.”

But everything healed.
It didn’t hurt anymore.
I never went to a doctor.

I kept twisting my ankle,
even on even ground.
I kept going.
In the end, everything hurt.
I felt broken—
then put back together.

Maybe that’s what being a b-boy means to me.

And my legs?
They only became full
once they hit the road.