My Perfect Man

If I had to describe my perfect man he wouldn't be you.

He wouldn't walk the way you do.

And he wouldn't cut his hair in that stupid style the stupid way you do.

No, he wouldn't be you.

My perfect man would be popular and tall,

he wouldn't be bald, the way you are.

He'd give me compliments, and call me princess,

He'd wake up ebery morning and look at me, and say

'Honey, youre the best.'

He wouldn't be poor, the way you are,

                 snore, the way you do.

He wouldn't moan,

and he'd always hear the phone.

                        -the way you never seem to.

He really wouldn't be you.

If I had to describe my perfect man, he wouldn't be you.

He really wouldn't be you.

He wouldn't, he wouldn't, no he wouldn't be you.

My perfect man just wouldn't be you,

but then he wouldn't be my perfect man,

if he weren't you.

Doing spells with Sophie

The cat burnt her whiskers last night,

We’d been doing spells and left the candles burning

Cindered cinnamon scattered around

cauldrons churning,
                                 bubbling, frothing wishes.

And the cat burnt her whiskers.

An omen perhaps?

A lapse in our concentration,

our hell bent determination,

our magic weaving, cult believing, meditation,

until the yelp, the ‘owh’

the ‘help’, the miaow.

The cat burnt her whiskers last night,

it gave her a fright.

but was a funny sight.



Back to Poems 


I bought a vibrator today,

I’m in America,

that’s what they do here.

Bold as brass, that’s actually shaking inside,

I held my head high,

walked into the shop and smiled.

For I am English,

and my upper lip is indeed stiff,

no pun intended.

My normal purchases so far from such feminist liberation,

this American influence would do well to infiltrate my

guilt-ridden nation.

So there I was,

lost in a selection of longs and shorts,

              wides and narrows,

              wiggly, jiggly, giggly, rubber latex,

waterproof toys.

Who needs boys?!

Not I, I say.

I’m in America.


The Night Feed

It's the middle of the night,
outside is still,
a street light glows in a soft flattering light for the roadside strippers,
               instills panic in the teenage acid trippers.

I wake, from a deep and exhausting slumber,
leaving the comfort of a world I still inhabit my pre-pregnancy body,
pulled reluctantly from these comforting yet misleading dreams
by her screams.

Suddenly a charm breaks and my breasts burst,
I am awash with milky glue,
and she screams and screams, awakened with thirst.

They ache, these mammouth Jordan-esque melons
that throb and pulse and stretch to fill
and though the river runs into puddles on my pillow
the oceans rage in my mammary glands still,
so I rise
to her cries, leave the warm, the snuggling of the quilt
and awash with human lactose and guilt
I plod to her room.

How does he sleep through?

She pauses for breath,
I freeze in the hall,
but refreshed she continues to ball,
huge, penetrating, piercing screams
as I open the door,

But then,
as a night owl swoops by the window,
and the cuckoo clock chimes three
I reach over the cot to my daughter,
she sees me,
stops her screams and smiles.

And through all the sleepless nights
the body cavaties and pain,
with that smile all is forgiven,
until she wakes me up again. 

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