Do Something To Me

contains erotic content

Jackets, rackets, hoodies,
bras and hankies. Kitchen,
picnic, travel, children’s
toys, and uniforms.
There is the same smell
in every shop: rough-soft,
moth-balled, time-stopped.
I was clearing the shop
of clothes that wouldn’t sell,
installing new racks for the goodwear,
banging on the beams, everything was everywhere.
She stood under me looking up
and I hung low in my shorts.

Nothing underneath, the Rain
had entered her top. My bells
shifted and rang in their sensitive sack.
Cathedral, she said. Huh? Commando
Freebone’s bell rope. and reached
up and tugged it, once, twice. 3pm.,

and a Southerly circled and pushed.
Palm to her nose, summer clothes,
she said, was all she had. At the end
of the shed I stopped for her to look
mature. No one is coming, I said. Not
yet she said, and took my place

where the moisturised seam, in its silk
cot. She held where I’d thickened
like a door handle, and said, I’ll leave
the room unlocked.

Then she pushed her finger into my
cloth, having writ her motel number
in the dust on the face of a clock.

When you’re sure I’m sleeping,
park around the block,
I won’t wake up if you do things.

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5 thoughts on “Do Something To Me”

  1. Thank you, gentlemen; it would be remiss of me if I didn’t infom you that in my erotic poetry. it is up to the reader to decide what did happen, what almost hapened, what certainly could have happened, but didn’t, and what I wanted to have happen, and what, other than on the firm bed of the page, I would as soon deny had ever happened.

  2. So well told and kicked along with that masterful rhyming ticking and clicking. We should be forgiven if we think you’re had an overly wild ride in your jack-of-all-trades life, Dean! To borrow a Bob Dylan lyric ‘(you) can write (us) poems, make a strong man lose his mind’!

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