One, Two, Bakerloo



One, Two, Bakerloo

Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s a jet-blond, beige-eyed,
Sugar-gliding rising-tide –
Mapping out her zones
On the side.
She’s sharp-blinking, slow-drinking,
Silver, gold and copper-zincing;
Marrow in her bones –
Miss Jones.
She knows her diphthongs from her phones,
She knows her murmurs from her moans,
She knows her rods and cones,
Does Jones.

She’s a spark-plug head-drug,
Neither-one-nor-other shrug –
Calling in her loans
For a hug.
She’s sharp-chalking, slow-walking,
Fly-pitching, street-hawking –
Tuning-up the drones:
So Jones !

How best to describe her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not to entribe her,
But to vibe her and imbibe her –
You’ll know her when you jibe her,
Come your turn.

Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s a one-take earthquake,
Dreamy girl who’s wide awake
Raisoning her scones
On the make.
She’s sharp-booking, slow-cooking,
Never where the rest are looking –
Ev’ryone condones
Miss Jones.
She knows her supines from her prones,
She knows her growlings from her groans,
She knows her Wrens and Soanes,
Does Jones.

She’s a snake-hiss l’il sis,
Turning blisters into bliss,
Trading all she owns
For a kiss.
She’s sharp-rooting, slow-booting,
Always with her head computing –
Wits is what she hones:
So Jones !

How best to convey her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not to survey her,
But purvey her and array her;
You’ll know her when you play her,
Come your turn.

Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s an odd-socks re-tox,
Big ring in a little box –
Sorting out the stones
From the rocks.
She’s sharp-sighing, slow crying,
Only-from-the-south applying;
Nobody postpones
Miss Jones.
She knows her witches from her crones,
She knows her yuppies from her Sloanes,
She knows her unbeknowns,
Does Jones.

She’s a tactile last-mile,
Drifting in and out of style –
She’s giving up her thrones
For a smile.
She’s sharp-nailing, slow-sailing,
Always with the wind prevailing –
Supercoiling clones:
So Jones !

How best to assess her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not second-bless her,
Or your guess’ll be the lesser –
You’ll know how to address her,
Come your turn.



These Eyes ain’t for Crying

Drawing Eyes Tutorial Man by Xia Taptara


These Eyes ain’t for Crying

The day that she left me
All cliches ran true,
And words like avow
And bereft and eschewing
Were bringing their heft
As their moment was due.
But I’m over them now,
And I’ve things to be doing.

The day that she left me,
All tears ran stains
That nothing could hide,
Not the beards of druids.
But now I’m more deft
At controlling my drains,
And so no salt is dried
By the theft of my fluids.



Pseudo for Two



Pseudo for Two

Oh yes, my love, yes !  Oh I shall, yes, I shall !
Oh, I shall take your hand – but alas not your name.
Now, pray do not think me an ungrateful gal,
But must we be titled and branded the same ?
I know, yes, I know – it makes us a union –
(And as reasons go, well, that’s not a puny one.)

But, honestly, darling, your name is, well…bland.
In no way notorious, curious, grand,
Nor pithy and sharp, nor noble and fine.
It’s boringly ordin’ry, jars most discordantly,
Wholly abundant, redundant and panned.
(And woe, don’t I know, so is mine !)

There’s nothing else for it, we each must do better –
Let’s cast both asunder, and start out anew.
We’ll tailor each phoneme and polish each letter,
To craft us a cognomen worthy and true.
Dynasties ?  Damn them !  Just patriarch fetters –
Anonymous rungs of begats and begetters.

Soon, my love, soon, shall the world know our name,
And sing out each syllable, ring out each tone.
And suitably christened, we’ll join in the game –
Inhabit our alias, make it our own.
And if they should wonder at who we became –
It’s only a label by which we are known.



This is written with a female voice, since they’re the ones used to changing names.



Love is Science Fiction

Musician by ellrano

Love is Science Fiction

Riding on a comet’s tail,
Or sailing on a solar sail,
Or swimming with a cosmic whale, so free –
If it could ever be.
Soaring in a space balloon,
Above the dark side of the Moon –
So watch the skies, I’ll see you soon, ma chère
Follow if you dare.
I guess I dream adventure far too much,
But ev’rytime we touch,
I feel the rockets fire and slip the clutch.

Meeting emperors of Mars,
Or space cadets in flying cars,
Or cybernauts from neutron stars, and lo !
We never get to go.
Surfing on an astral flare –
It can’t be done, and I don’t care –
So grab your board, I’ll see you there, for eight.
Alas, I may be late.
I guess I know I’m stranded on this place,
But each time we embrace,
It feels like I’m already out in space.

Charting interstellar seas
’Round Neptune and the Pleiades,
And who would not desire these – and yet
Desire’s all we get.
But fly with me to all extremes,
Where gravity can’t ground our dreams,
And we can dance on ether beams, my friend –
At least, we can pretend.
I guess I’ll never know what thrills I miss,
But ev’rytime we kiss,
I bet they feel an awful lot like this.

Le Voyeur & His Muse

belly dancer
The Belly Dancer by Leon Devenice




Le Voyeur & His Muse

Chatting to Ciaci,
Her cattiness catchy,
She’s dressed in Apache,
And sipping Chartreuse.
And Chach ain’t so scratchy,
Or haggard and latchkey –
He knows how to catch
La Tchatcheuse.

He offers his arm, for
He knows how to charm her,
And though just a farmer,
He sure can seduce.
She cha-chas with Ciaci,
The natch from Karachi,
And soon he shall snatch
La Tchatcheuse.

I watch them a while
Admiring their style,
But I don’t think I’ll
Be goosing their deuce.
I leave her to Ciaci,
Her bold mariachi,
Defending his patch:
La Tchatcheuse.

But after their cha-cha,
He makes his departure.
She orders an Archers
And cranberry juice.
And still she is dancing,
And I chance a glancing –
She has me entranced,
La Tchatcheuse.

I watch as this cutie
Persists in her duty –
She boots up her booty,
And boosts her caboose.
I so want to join her,
But others purloin her.
Don’t fall for their coin,
La Tchatcheuse !

For one day I’ll ask her,
And one day she’ll answer –
And I’ll be her dancer
And then we’ll cut loose.
But right now, I tip her
And try to stay chipper –
I’ll wait for your lips,
La Tchatcheuse !




shallow photography of dried leaves
Photo by Alan Cabello on



The plant you gave so lovingly
Is dying on my windowsill.
I swear it’s not a metaphor,
It’s just a drooping hellebore.
I tend the plant so lovingly,
And steadily it goes downhill.
I swear its thrips and fungal pus
Are meaningless in terms of us.
This poor maltreated gift you chose,
This sacrificial Lenten rose,
Is no barometer of woes
That gnarls and twists and guilts.
It’s just a plant in dying throes
That cannot blame or presuppose.
The only thing this flower shows
Is soil that’s poor in silts.
I swear our love still blooms and grows,
As surely as this other wilts.
Whatever the bards or historians say,
It’s not the pot-plant of Dorian Gray.



Honeymoon at Niagara Falls

woman wearing grey long sleeved top photography
Photo by Artem Bali on


Honeymoon at Niagara Falls

We shared a kiss at Cautley Spout,
Amid the rush and spray –
The waters leapt and splashed about
And we were swept away.
We fell in love at Hardraw Force,
The falls upon the fells,
And watched the beck descend its course
With tinkling wedding bells.
We were engaged at Corra Linn,
Beside the change of grade.
We took the plunge and dived right in,
And let our hearts cascade.
There’s something in the water
That attracts us to each weir.
We’ll face a fair few cataracts,
But never shed a tear !