He walks in
Bringing the rain and wind
And muddy feet
But no love.

He walks in
Bringing the veggies
The maid’s headache tablet
The rat poison
But no hugs.

He walks in
Bringing his one liners
His humour wrapped in
Self depreciation
His need to do good
But no cuddles.

He walks in bringing
His wit
His take on world politics
His anger at gossip
Gone a bit murky
But no love murmurings.

He walks in
Satisfied his employers
Have got their buck.

Have I?


Performance Anxiety

I told the magic man’s hat
To move over
The bunny growled
In orange-vampire-teeth-gone-wrong
And complained about
The state’s housing policy.

The clown walked in,
As usual, uninvited
And showed us how
His red blubby nose
Was a cancer wart
With a pretty personality.

You couldn’t see the lions
Or the tigers
They were busy being reincarnated
But their skins
Watched the show
In the guise of rectangles
Slung from elbows
Attached to glossy magazine
Ripouts come alive
In real bodies
With unreal parts.

The children do not enter
This piece
They cannot be touched
My eager ovaries
Still have hunger.

When the acrobat’s pants split
One forgot he wasn’t the clown
And the fire eater stored, secretly
Raw meat cut by a stroked butcher
In his large cavaties
To save on cooking time

The ringmaster pretended
He was again on the analyst’s couch
Regurgitating an S & M fantasy
Where he was the S and the M.

The Big Tent pretended
They all didn’t exist
He was the only one
Who could gaze
At familiar stars
And stick out
His big red tongue.


The weather in my heart
Is a sombre blue today
Where half-hearted clouds
Have drizzled butterfly wings
Drenching the ladybug’s
Tea party.

There’s a lazy, cosy feel
To this greyness, where a fog
Hangs, almost, thin and still
Awaiting steaming cups of tea
Spiked by battered ginger.

I can’t go to school with you

I don’t want to be your Mrs. Robinson
I don’t want to teach you things anew
I don’t want to be the one who’ll understand
While you throw tantrums and the cat.

You look at me with puppy eyes
Claim you’ve been there too
You haven’t really, clear-eyed child
I’m not your blazing crash course
Hand-holding you to hell and back.

You’ll pirouette around my world
Dizzy with love and my touch
For seconds I’ll stare spellbound
Till worms in my head
Shriek again and again
And my waiting ears
Hijack our lust.

You tell me I’m young
I smile at your youth
While your hand tiptoes
Tentatively up my back
And your mind plots
Furiously, a kiss I’ve seen
I’ll wish just once more I had
That surprise of innocence.

How will you compete little boy
With an age of romance
That begun
Before you did?
Every cliché you subvert
Cradles the tarnished charm
Of nostalgia grimy and grey
Clogged and clinging
Unwashable pores.

You can’t compete with memories
That even I have forgotten
But they lie in me
Like anonymous dust,
Rustling my skin
Sandpapering my heart.

That’s why I seek an aged turtle
Wrinkled like me
And together
He and I
Will swim salty seas
Where tears mingle
And sweetness
Will be a quiet silence.

Soul Mate

She was a sculpted beauty
Packed with sex appeal
And a penchant for tight
-excess-water- off clothes
From which her ampleness
Spilled endlessly.
There was so much of it.
Her mind was the feather-light variety
Dim and slow
The kinds who never got the joke
But had a pretty laugh.
She donated her true love
To a man who claimed
To adore her wit.


She was a Mensa scholar
Who knew eight languages
And sixteen dialects
For fun, she memorized
Trivia about Henry
(Henry-I, Henry-II, Henry-III, Henry-IV,
Henry-V, Henry-VI, Henry VII, Henry-VIII).
Her body was a dry twig
If her nose was a tad more hooked
You could use her to hang clothes.
Her heart belonged to a man
Who told her
She had beautiful eyes.


She saved her pennies
Coin by coin
When a rainy day came
She saved some more
Till she could live on nothing
But the thought of her savings.
She found a lover
Who burnt through his salary
In eye-blinks and then
Would dip into her
Carefully, collected growing pile
With gigantic, hungry paws.

She bubbled with laughter
Cheerful wide-eyed
That splashed in puddles
Made songs about rainbows
Whistled at the wind
And found smiles in sand dunes.
Her true love was a cynic
So bitter that his kisses
Tasted of
Numbing black, bleak sorrow
With a hint of volcanic hate
And a mellow finish of acid
That dissolved hope.


She was a list woman
Who said ‘Thank you’
In modulated, breathless
Practiced tones
After an orgasm.
Her life was a timetable
Of precise instructions
Written in 9 point Arial
Right down to what undies to wear
On Sunday before church.
The object of her lust
Was a crumpled impulsive kisser
Age no bar
And sometimes sex no bar
With an easy sloppy smile
Whose five year plan
Was a single PPT slide
That read
‘Just dance’.


She cleaned under beds
Behind mug handles
Over light bulbs in shades.
She scrubbed the soles of her shoes
Washed the tyres of her cycle
Mopped her nostril hair of dirt
Every single fucking day.
The nooks and crannies of her house
Were slavishly attended to
And when her house gleamed
And sparkled of spit and polish
She started dusting
All over again.
She gave her heart to a man
Whose two-year-old-used condoms
Were found under pillows
Nudging soggy, chip crumbs
And a strange green thing.


I think all of them lived happily ever after.