Thursday, April 03, 2008


This poem is about twenty years old but is now so dated that I don't think anywhere would take it. Its place is here, uncovered, with all the others in the post below.


Cavaliers on the weekend tour
we keep eyes peeled for well-heeled
men with wallets, and hair just groomed.
My hot lips squint from lurching cheers
in clouded rooms, guessing careers
comparing body parts to heights
though any one might test the means
come the end of the long long, night.

Sliding from cocktail to bar, Whores
they call us. We laugh at sneers
slant eyes across pints of Coors
nudge elbows ‘Had him last year -
condommed to the armpits, no fear’

and necks stretched against boisterous bites
walled up dark lanes with trembling knees
come the end of the long, long night.

Now bare-back riders buck no more
no sucking and jumping bones, dears –
safe sex penetrates…no encore.
Fingers don’t feel the same here,
turns the spear into a gloved peen;
in these diseased years thighs are tight
the months are passing, now eighteen
come the end of the long, long night.


So cancel my ticket to ride
blow sweet kisses, goodnight good knights,
sing softly of white wine and beer
come the end of the long, long night.


OSLO said...

I think the poem is wonderful! I'm well impressed.

ireneintheworld said...

oh thanks jo. this poor old thing has been battered through loads of rejections over the years and is now very tired it wants to lie down. glad you liked it.

do people even remember what 'coors' was? x