They just pout at each other, smile and wink.

They go down well with drink.

Triangular sandwiches all love-struck.

Have you ever seen a more glazed blushing cook?

‘Slap me with the salmon and pull down the shutters.’

‘Smother me in butter,’ another one mutters.

‘Stroke me down with cucumber slices . . . ’

‘I like it like that, pepper me with spices.’

‘Massage that cream cheese over my chest.’

‘Let your olive oil seep through my bread vest.’

Triangular sandwiches soaked in salad dressing.

The lusciously laid lovers among the depressing.

Pretenders pretending they’re enjoying the chat.

Of the who’s who in the what’s what of where it must be at.

The lush lounge lizards lay and, like when lovers undo,

Stretch by the rosed radish as corks seductively unscrew.

But a suit will saunter his hand, will swoop limply from above.

He will open his salivating mouth, push one in and shove.

He will crunch her inside his grating teeth

And leave the other sandwich sandwiched in grief.

The Elevator

The Elevator

It was embarrassing for him. I sixth-sensed it. Me.

One hotel. One elevator. One world. Two people.

One black. One white. One young. One old.

One thousand conflicting thoughts.

One silence. One destination.

For one it was a short journey,

For one it was long.

With one nervy question

He just had to break the silence.

‘Are you with the basketball team?’

I answer choosing a two-lettered

One-syllable staccato reply:

‘No.’

As he mentally rocked to and fro, swilling in discomfort,

The elevator hummed like it was listening into the atmosfear.

Instead of thinking that I might slam dunk his head through

A hoop that had spit for a net, I drift.

I imagine the elevator gracefully passing the ground floor,

As an eagle might pass a parachutist

Who couldn’t find his rip cord.

It continues to go down deeper and deeper

Down where the deeper down is.

Where deep is down with deeper down.

Down.

A Flock of Sound

A Flock of Sound

There is a rhythm, a soul’s rhythm,

A come in from the cold rhythm,

A no need to go rhythm,

A take off your bruise shoes

And shake off tomorrow rhythm.

There is a rhythm, a wild rhythm,

An adult’s just a child rhythm,

A blissed-out whispering

Smile while listening rhythm.

There is a rhythm, a higher than sky rhythm.

The rhythm of spaces, a sweet-tasting,

Liquor-laced rhythm. An eyelid-flicking,

Slick thigh-licking rhythm.

A come home to the comfort zone rhythm.

A relax in your black, take nothing back rhythm.

There is a rhythm, a rhythm.

A sweet-sounding grounded rhythm,

A spaced-out sense of place rhythm,

A give in to your within rhythm,

A rainy season body-teasing,

Dripping sugar-caned cocooned,

Landing on the moon rhythm.

A making-room rhythm.

A lake and mist lip-kissing dew-glistening,

Earthed and wired surround-sound future-bound,

Magic-carpeted and homeward bound rhythm.

A pain-soothing hip-moving pressure-releasing

Depression-decreasing graffiti-wriggling baby-

Giggling Zebra crossing – Walk Don’t Walk – button-pressing