Rivers are wet
Dams are hard.
Dams slow and block rivers.
Everyone knows

BUT Other times
Dams make the rivers flow and flow.
It doesn't take much to to evoke a dam
Once its raised
There is no way of stopping the course
But who would want to stop it anyways?

Night after night
Day after day
river keeps the dam working.
dam keeps the river flowing.

Never running dry
Never growing weak
but occasionally reaching a peak.
This is something very few people see


This poem isn't about water and concrete

"Konnichiwa"
A voice calls out,
foreign, disembodied.
Once again but louder-
"konnichiwa!"

I walk dripping from the shower
to the bedroom.
Upon my bed a fresh white towel
lay folded and
upon that my 'phone.
Vibrating,
It's her.

Two women in my room
-one does the bidding
of the other-
The ring-tone
female and Japanese.

I place the 'phone
upon the dresser,
take the towel
from off the bed
and dry myself.
I lay upon the fresh sheets
and sigh.
She calls again.

The voice enquires:
"Konnichiwa"
the tone becoming
increasingly irritable.
I stare at the ceiling.
She calls again.
I turn my back on her enquiry
and lay staring
with my eyes closed
waiting...


re-edit
words and foto Tommy Carroll

The curvature of her enthrals me, ever
Calling me to her body, so still can she
be, motionless but underneath she is as
Irrational as any one could really be.

Her mood like everything can change,
She is impercive in her vocal structure
That I ride with every word, till I fall
Off the tip of her tongue.

I crash beneath her, but she lets go, letting
Me breath resting upon her.  I love to be
With her, she surrounds me, I feel her upon
My skin and relish her touch, we are one.

You spread both my legs
Like preparing sandwich
Then you touch what's
Between my thighs
Until it's dripping
Oh, so wet
As you kiss my lips
Like sipping your
Morning tea
Until I forgot all the rest
Cause you eat me up
From my bottom
To my chest

rain dogs
lightn bolts
wet shirt
at forty five

pants soak
holes float
big like sky
the red sign

black tea
death sticks
all sunk
I hate it dry

A slap on the face during a good hard *******.

So as I approach the all to familiar landscape I used to call my home, I look up to the sky above and, well what do you know...
Its beginning to rain, just a bit of light drizzle overhead.
Yet I know once I step foot off this bus and on to solid ground.
The heavens they will open and the umbrellas will be out.
I shall be soaked from head to foot.
In precipitation and perspiration whilst  running for shelter from the storm.
It's kind of irritating but it also what keeps me warm.
The knowledge that it doesn't change whilst I am away.
This dank and dismal place called Manchester.
Can still brighten up the grey.