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.

in entering

caution: contains erotic content

a lovely little mouth
she wouldn’t take her top off
her apple-small breasts,
dormant in middle school
if you were to guess
had swelled with milk and feed
her children, then flattened
like two bits of quilted doona.

she’d shared the seat, behind
me on the bus, with another
from the library, we’d discussed
the subjects strangers probing do.
I presented her a blindfold.

I found, from when my hair
was long, the unused ties
I’d kept, as I expected
to mane again, eventually
…at first we kept her clothes
on, everything, skirt
shoes, but then
and shhh she purred
knotting the tie behind my head
we’ll get to that
here’s the glass and placed
my hand to where the ashtray
would catch the bottom
of the glass
shortly.

and I squeezed and milked
her little oven
mitts, her ankle socks
through the lacy silk
camisole
as she rode, my rock
and tunnel, tuck and untuck
stick afloat
in the deep canal. a log, or leg,
lost from an amputee
as the tide released resistance
to the river
and the backlog beings
made of water make loosened
as emotion constipates we take
our fall, our summers, fallow
restive periods…

and soon, it wasn’t long,
a spilt cup, a never mind, a
line or two about the bind
secure, with her trust-established
roots, she let me rope their once
adroit erogenous firmness
in Time’s sensitivity to fairness
in a light, and un-filmed bondage
to a balloon-tight rubescent
bubble of strangled flesh
and I walked around the room
with her around my hips
the blindfold off, my neck
arterie throbbing in her lips.
as I bounced her on the spot
six inches up and down
around and round inside
the bones to hold the frame
a mating rubric after menopause

How Was Your Day?

Caution: contains erotic content

I didn’t know if she could
see me, the woman, in her 50’s,
a sport shape in the shoulders, squash
or tennis I’d guess, but now with
the belly fat of feasting; blond
-assisted, cut nicely short; her breasts
were not much bigger than softballs
and sat up separated by the seatbelt,
and her hem had ridden high
to her groin and she had no underwear
on and pubic stubble like four day growth.

We were stopped at a red light
and two fingers on her right hand
were lightly applying for employment.
I’d erected fully in the few seconds
it took to adjust myself in my pants
she turned left and I changed lanes
and I followed her small modern vehicle
into the shopping centre
where she drove to the far corner
by the pet store. Taking a map book
from under the seat of the van I walked
towards her and asked if she could help
me. I was at the window —the moment
the addict is satisfied: I could be shot
with venom or hit in the face with failure,
or welcomed silently in
the neutral trust of strangers
aligned; and as I rested the free arm
on the door I said I wonder if you
could…open …your legs …a little
wider? And I put my hand on her right
knee and her legs parted and her heart
was like a foot drum as I followed the soft
warm thigh under the now or never moment
of her complacent, compliant skirt and I touched
her between her short places…She lowered
and moved back the seat and raised the
left foot onto the centre column,
by the gear stick, and rested her head back
and groaned lowly out of her jaw
as she moved her buttocks
to the edge of the seat
and lit a cigarette.

That girl, From The Party After The play, Watson’s Friend

Caution: contains erotic content

someone I didn’t know slept
on next to me,
I didn’t wake her, when I rose,
sickened, to medicate
from the cool frigates
moored in the harbours of the mind
and any apprehension
left me as I lit the first enrolment form
and moved the blanket covering
a long spine, cellulite, a few pimples
to who I had to slowly piece together
as I sat beside the heavy old compewta
and watched her
and smelt her and couldn’t
remember what
we’d been doing.

I smelt myself. I bubbled
a cone and drained the bladder
for a pint of the last merlot,
I lifted the insects out and felt Forever
on the exhalation
as a place I wouldn’t want to leave,
smoky partial rays of summer, light
fragrance of the night, beeswax
blobs of a forgotten candle. I opened the book
cover of her buttocks, her two pages.
I read low, obsessed for her
story…hmmm she said, dhaa.
and I was blind, like a radar
but I didn’t have the narrative
and soon she asked, throwing back
the lighter, if I’d like to fight her,
beat the panels dented in the landing,
and the hot city magnified the heat,
and light lit the curtains like the perspex
box at the studio by the telephone
/fax I used to view the Hasselblad
transparencies on. I was in my Dream,
no mistake, I wasn’t just looking
at the negatives. go one further
she said, grab my throat, don’t leave a
mark though, and cracks began
appearing in her breathing, and I took
it to her roughly, to the hanger, I said,
to the reaches of our large human minds.
I’m paraphrasing, can you tell?, amalgamating
mornings, it was both of us filming
by creating, these were the fantasies assembled
in our childhood, every party, every bender,
every carbon-copy send-off,
every contact sheet from the Nikon
I was getting older— into place, but further
from the resolute original. I pinned her
arms to the floor, forcing my origin all
between her hips, her knees, expertly
parted I thought, on top of the first thought,
running the stoned tip of my hard looks
around her lips, waiting for a numbness
to truly penetrate, before the right to celebrate
her ended, nearly every morning
was cork to the bottle of the previous
day, ideas were being quickly reimagined
in the do-nothing smoke, fungal
hallucinations, abysmal diet, socks,
a hefner robe, a guccione scrambling
in the failure to repack
for online content. I photographed the
yellow green light of tennis balls, in the
curtains, then left them
open for some neighbours in the flats above
are things done just done to try it. and my balls
she said I
love it they were stroking her
low hole hanging in the Tuesday
humidity.