*Poem Post: "The Toes that Bind Us - Lines for Armistice Day"

"The toes that bind us

- Lines for Armistice Day"

Outside, in the dead of night,

The rain hammers the 

Ostentatious decking

Around this half-penny whistle

Of a house I call home.

Hunched over, 

Perched on the edge 

Of the oak-tabled ledge

The flames roar before me

As tentative 2K toes 

Splay naked, eager for warmth.

But how much luckier 

Mine that theirs

Who served a century ago

On western fronts

Entombed in snow?

Their penury now is digitised 

But surely a heart familiarised

With trenched-trauma, 

Rhyme and verse,

Could not but be 

Moved to converse

With something stirring

Stark within,

(Well past the reach of faith or sin)

As through the loam and 

Blood and fear 

Did many,

Far younger that I, dare.

Alas! Such debts one 

Can't repay, 

And never will I get to say

To those whose 

Ghostly memories bade,

And conferred to me 

A century hence;

Your lice weren't given 

For diffidence.

Poem Post - "Bumping Uglies (Consensual Lines on Sex)"

In a world in which all

Proverbial cogs are

Lubed with industrial KY,

Dripping with the foul raw stench of sexuality,

Am I wrong for reaching for the

Warm wet-wipe and hot towelette,

Or the porcelain phone?

Often it feels as though a

Scaly, dark engorgement is being

Forcibly inched turgid

Down my non-consensual

Spasming gullet,

Choking me blue with

Throbbing ignominious desires,

For the mundane, the profane,

The commercial,

As I wide-eyed claw for terrified air:

Buy this watch.

You'll have great sex

- Or at least be able time yourself.

Lightly spritzed in perfumed delights,

Designed by pop stars

You'll smell all the better for sex!

The clothes, the car,

The come-fulfill-me tinsel

With which we

Lavishly adorn ourselves,

In which pre-pubescents parade;

All the better for

Pounding hard-on up to

Fellatial summits and across

Sensual plateaus,

(Where everyone is fabulous),

To slake the lip-cracked thirst

For bestial congress.

Animalian weildings above the din,

The flailing of tears,

The betrayal of flesh,

The heaving of rain onto

Indelible hearts and

Saddened, eternally ungratified sheets...

The next day?

The half-denied concessions

Half-brushed almost aside,

Framing Platonic differential

With tomorrow's sadness.

The black-worm ambrosia

Wiped afresh from our chins,

We shuffle back to it,

Aware in our gardens of

A vacant space

Where something fertile

Used to reside, but now

Abject lies in the

Half-truth-half-light of

Morning's shadow,

Like a long-depotted plant's

Sill-sought stain.

Nevermind.

We hide resentment

From downcast eyes,

For knowing that the little death

Shot the messenger,

In their chalk outline

We see all too clearly, all too late:

Interned to gag on fetid bait!

Yet still I crave and burn, irate.

Use your sex wisely!

People treat people as if

Something more than genitals

Will ever be found in the

Yawning chasm between

Spread legs and closed minds.

Yet like ice to Eskimos we

Gobble frozen fallacies

- Spit them out children!

As the rising protuberant swell of the

Rich and powerful invade, their

Endless mascaras,

Fanciful creams and

Cherry-lipped enticements

Numb overwrought senses.

We all pay for sex now.

iCrave and iThrob, iRate!

To buy into the lie

Of corporeal station

We pucker up in great queues,

Pressing palm-slickened wads

From desperate trembling hands

To kiss vulgar brown rings!

The swooning Twitterati will

Soon enough be

Laid prostrate,

End to end,

Top to Bottom,

Penetrating the

Fog of neutral antipathy which

Hugs the ground of the

Suck-seeding day.

Far easier will it then be

To poke out our eyes and

Skull-fuck us over:

Perpetual endless oscillations:

iCrave, iThrob, iSate.

iRepeat -

iSate, iCrave, iThrob...

© J.J. Bardsley aka The Dharma-Farmer

November 2014