Post-Fuck Awkwardness

You know, afterwards, do you cuddle? See I’m puzzled because, holding you feels a bit much. Like opening myself up to you, which I know I literally did do about twenty minutes ago and, though you are now very well acquainted with my cervix that still seems

Less…Intimate.

More…Natural.

Than fingersteps traced across your chest as my head rests on your clavicle; your hands in my hair and gentle kisses pressed on my forehead. You turn to spoon but, it feels a bit soon, like, I don’t even know which drawer holds your actual cutlery in the kitchen. I’ve never been there. You just whisked me upstairs, stripped to underwear, my clothes (and yours too) strewn, chaos on your bedroom floor, and they always seem so disapproving the morning after the night before so I hurry them back on. All whispered curses and shuffling limbs in the dark. My bra straps are twisted wrong and I’ve only got one sock so, I flick the light on. Catch your half opening, just-fucked, 3am eyes. And realise. For the first time tonight.

I am truly naked.

Dodgy Pancreas

I’ve got a dodgy pancreas

It’s really got me irked

What’s the point in having a pancreas

If your pancreas doesn’t work

 

The Islets of Langerhan sound right exotic

But they’re there under your skin

Where the beta cells do their handiwork

Producing Insulin

 

Something beat my beta cells

That’s what’s got me so pissed

Around last march I got the flu

And The Islets went ‘fuck this’

 

Now I’m saddled with prescription bags

Needles in my backpack

Shooting up four times a day

And no – it isn’t smack

 

It’s just my dodgy pancreas

It’s really not my fault

But my daily treat of something sweet

Has been brought to a halt

 

I’ve got a lifetime ban on Lucozade

A fatwa on Fruit Pastilles

Some people think I’m bonkers –

That’s a quote from Dizzee Rascal –

 

But they don’t know

The difference between ‘hyper’ and ‘hypo’

Ups and downs like a yo-yo

On a go-slow cos I’m low on carbohydrates

Makes me weak, sweat, shake, confused, irate

And what I hate the most

Is having to stop mid-coitus for a slice of jam on toast

 

And drying my toes with talcum powder

‘always wear clean socks’

If you don’t do it your feet might smell

But they might have to chop mine off

 

And ‘ooh do you have to inject yourself?

‘I couldn’t do that’ they cry

‘okay, fair enough’ I say

‘then you’d just die.’

Like Ella, Bob Marley, Jonny Cash,

It’s a fucking long list, I’ve read it

It’s not quite the 27 club,

more a dancehall for dead diabetics.

To The Girl

To the girl whose relationship to me

Was somewhat ambiguous due to her ‘heterosexuality’

But who I was fingerblasting on a regular basis.

 

It’s taken me five years to know

Just how to write this letter

To decide whether I saw you as a threat, a regret, a stressor

I’ve had that time to think though

And I reckon I’ve got your measure

Roll credits, have I got news for you:

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

Okay so you’ve had eyes for guys

Dated, kissed, whatever

Got your hands on him but you don’t fool me

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

Have you still not realised

Or does the truth upset you?

The closet door is open wide

Come out you big fat lezzer

 

I want you to know that it’s okay

I’m not here to depress you

Liberate and celebrate

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

There’s really no need to cry cos

You’re  big fat fucking lezzer

Is it really such a surprise that

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer?

Has nobody else realised that

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer?

 

You’ll say I just imagined it

But I’m not gonna let you

Forget how real I made you feel

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

You think you’ll get away with it

But you can’t pretend forever

Your breasts were pressed beneath my palms

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

Say he’s the best you’ve ever had

But you know I was better

You loved my head between your legs

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

You came so hard you cracked my ribs

You big fat fucking lezzer

 

You’re a big fat fucking lezzer

 

You big fat fucking

Liar liar

Pants on fire

I make you so wet you need a tumble drier

Your about as straight as a donut mate,

In that we both took pleasure

I see you for what you truly are

You big fat fucking lezzer.

I Wanna Be On Top

The sauce and sprinkles on your 99

The tallest ladder you’ve ever climbed

A jackdaw perched on your telephone line

I wanna be on top.

 

The double knot in your rollerblades

The ice-cream float in your lemonade

Your bank balance when you’ve just been paid

I wanna be on top.

 

The pointy bit on the Eiffel tower,

The hands holding clocks in the midnight hour

Flying should be my superpower

I wanna be on top.

 

A BBQ sausage sizzling over the coal

Sir Ranulph Fiennes when he reached the north pole

The icing sugar on an arctic roll

I wanna be on top.

 

Top like the crown on the head of the Queen

Or the bathroom window you can never clean

Or the shelf, home to XXX porno magazines

I wanna be on top.

 

The mercury rising in hot august sun

Top deck of the bus that you’re hoping will come

Top of the pops, and I’m number one baby

I wanna be on top.

 

The crusty roof on your home baked bread

Forget the assistant I’m the company head-

stone, laid over you when you’re dead

I wanna be on top.

 

A jumbo jet hurtling through the skies, past

those skyscrapers that the hippies despise

“The way you feel between my thighs” she said,

“I wanna be on top.”

Top Shop

Top Gear

Top Banana

Top Class

Not for your personal gratification

But for my own personal stimulation

I’ll never drop

Until I pop, baby

I wanna be on top.

The Colour of My Name

My name is dappled sunlight, slinking through the grasp of the trees to caress the forest floor. It purrs like a satisfied cat on its favourite cushion, ginger paws curled up and tucked away under all the fluff. It tastes of rich, melted butter on hot crumpets, its texture the froth of a cappuccino on a breezy April morning. It is the pavement outside a smoky bar in New Orleans, the honeysuckle tones of the trumpet daring you to peek in.

If I had been Annabelle, feeding baby ducks in the pond with granny, I would be a delicate forget-me-not. I would tie mauve ribbons in my pigtails and wear navy skirts with pleats. The sound would be a little girl running down the road, giggling. A girl tasting of parma violets, or candy canes, or sherbet lemons.  I would take ballet, tap, modern; my smell little black polished tap shoes, clicking together in glee.