How to Make Love with an Alien
A siren may serenade – softly she sings,
A banshee may let-out a climactic wail,
An angel may hug with her feathery wings,
A mermaid may wrap with her muscular tail,
A harpy may shriek with her passionate lungs,
A centaur may whinny her amorous cry,
A gorgon may kiss with her two-dozen tongues,
A faun-maid may stroke with her flocculent thigh.
But humans, ah, humans, the uppermost rungs,
The strangest of lovers of all you could try.
…But Then Again, Too Few To Mention
I wonder how we might have met,
If I were not so shy and wet –
We may indeed have had a blast !
Ah well, the moment passed.
I was so young, I was so green,
I didn’t dwell on might-have-been –
The moment came, but then was gone,
And I was moving on.
I wonder what we might have thought,
If I had not adventure sought –
But on came life, so bright and fast,
And so the moment passed.
I was so young, so seventeen,
I had no time for might-have-been –
The cygnet must become the swan,
And soon be flying on.
I wonder if we might have laughed,
If I were not so brash and daft –
I set my lot before the mast,
And thus the moment passed.
I was so young, I was so lean,
I longed for now, not might-have-been –
My time had come to take the conn,
And I was sailing on.
I wonder if we might have sighed,
If only I were not a-stride –
But all the world was deep and vast,
And so the moment passed.
I was so young, I was so keen,
With time enough for might-have-been –
I searched for Zeus and Prester John,
Forever moving on.
I wonder what we might have found,
If I were not so onward-bound –
But dice were thrown and dye was cast,
And so the moment passed.
I was so young and so serene,
And put off thought of might-have-been –
So many sights to gaze upon
Meant I was moving on.
I wonder what we might have said,
If only I had stayed instead ?
We may have loved as beau and lass,
Or let the moment pass.
We were so young, my almost-queen,
So nearly and so might-have-been –
The chances danced, the summer shone,
But life was moving on.
Monaesthesia
The number one is many things:
The first, the last, a third of three,
But never red or cold or soft to me.
And as for feelings Monday brings
Like boredom, stress and starting new,
It’s never musk or Mendelssohn or blue.
My numbers do not stretch in strings
That always and precisely wind
In fixed meanders hanging in my mind.
And yet, for you each letters sings
As glad or cautious, salt or sweet.
To you, my view of life is incomplete.
How am I to love you back ?
My thoughts are elementalized,
My triggers compartmentalized,
And never transcendental accidentalized.
And you with yours all out-of-whack
With P’s as quartz and Q’s as jet
In ways I’ll never really get
When white is white, and only black is black.
I must admit, it kills me
When I think of how I’m blind
To the wiring of your mind,
And the way your neurons spill and slide.
But then again, it thrills me
When I think of how my touch
Can bring about so much besides,
With all your senses catching rides.
Watching You Idle
I love the way you love to put
Your limbs to work on your behalf,
And use the top side of each foot
To gently stroke your other calf.
I love the way you interlace your toes
So absently,
But best of all, I love how no-one knows
But you and me.
I love the way you stretch and pull
Your sleeves, to burrow hands within
So all that shows beyond the wool
Are fingertips where cuffs begin.
I love the way you flex and click your thumbs,
And use the other eight for drums –
I love the way your body uses stealth
To exercise all by itself.
I love the way you use your eyes
To stare and stare and never see,
Until they catch you by surprise
By darting off quite suddenly.
I love the way they love to smoothly glide
And sometimes fly –
But best of all, I love the way they hide
When feeling shy.
I love the way you purse your lip,
And chuck your tongue, and breathe out slow –
And always lodge an apple pip
Within your teeth, and never know.
I love the way that ev’rytime you smile,
It has to build itself a while.
It’s not your body that I most approve,
But it’s the way you make it move.
Tubular Belle
I happened upon her by chancery lane,
A greenford-eyed angel was riding my train.
She stood like a monument, no poplar tart,
She’s shoreditch to snaresbrook my hammersmith heart.
Her body’s a temple, all saints can’t compare,
So redbridge her lips and so blackwall her hair.
Her beauties are out of my gallions reach –
They pinner my tongue, which cockfosters my speech.
A wapping-great loughton’s west acton the fool –
He’s epping and barking, but she’s morden cool.
She’ll ruislip his grasp with her fairlop display,
And mudchute him down as she bounds green away.
I see her each mornington crescent alone,
Her marble arch skin is like cream leytonstone.
This queensway of smiling’s from upney above –
I cyprus with wonder and kilburn with love.
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 self-mocking, breath-shocking,
Braces, belt, and double-locking –
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
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.
Nom d’Usage
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.
On a complete tangent, why do we say ‘nom de plume’ and not ‘nom de la plume’ ?
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
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 !
Rhyming Couplets 