Susie gazed out at the atlantic. Great waves crashed against the cliffs . A gust of wind caught the girl almost knocking her off her feet. She seemed not to notice, her eyes remained fixed on the wild sea. Unbidden the words came to her
“Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
    Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
     The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
     Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
                      Death lies dead.”
Susie’s salty tears mingled with the sea water which the ever increasing wind blew into her eyes.
“I’m not crying, it’s the sea water making my eyes sting” So what if I am crying? All this will pass and go. Long after I am dead this will remain, the uncaring ocean buffeting the cliffs as it has for millennia. Eventually the cliffs and the surrounding habitations will be claimed by the sea. Out of the sea life came and to the ocean humanity will return.
But I’m 20, I don’t want to die”.
All flesh is dust a mocking voice intoned. Susie whirled around. There was no one save for the gulls which wheeled and screeched overhead.
“Yes I will die but please god not yet. I have my whole life to look forward to” Susie said burying her face in her hands.  
“Stupid girl” the voice, like some  insidious demon crept into her brain.
“Shut up, shut up” the girl wept sticking her fingers into her ears attempting to silence the tormentor.
“Stupid slapper. Silly *****” the voice said undaunted by Susie’s attempts to silence it.
Doing her best to ignore whatever devil was taunting her Susie reached into her coat pocket. She felt the plain brown official envelope.
“I can’t, I won’t open it. I’ll throw it away. Better not to know”.
“Ignorance is bliss, little miss a coward is” the voice sneered.
“*******, *******” Susie screamed. Her words where lost in the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves. Susie became aware of the crumpled envelope in her hands. In her agitation she had ******* it into a ball. How easy it would be to rid herself of the thing. One flick of her wrist and the letter would be lost forever in the depths of the Atlantic.
“Coward, coward” the voice taunted.
With a supreme effort Susie unscrewed the envelope and with trembling hands opened it. Reluctantly the girl extracted a crumpled letter.
“I can’t read it, I can’t” Susie wept. “Why did I do it? God let it be good news. Please, oh Christ I can’t bare it”.

Susie’s mind went back 4 months. She was drunk. She had never been so drunk in her entire life. The thump, thump of the music transported the girl into a world where only she and the beat, beat of the bass existed. She danced wildly letting herself be taken by the music to another realm.
Susie didn’t remember him arriving. One moment she was dancing alone, the next Susie was spinning around in the arms of a total stranger. Later that evening Susie recalled having *** in a cubicle in the gents toilets. Susie thought that she had consented but she had been so drunk she wasn’t sure.
“Christ, no ******. How could I have been so ****** stupid. I went to a good school, got all the right exams and I’m now at uni. I should have known better”.
Susie had gon to the hospital on the following day and had been tested for sexually transmitted diseases.
“You have ****** but that can easily be dealt with by antibiotics” the nurse had said.
Susie breathed a sigh of relief.
“You will, however need to come back in 3 months time for a *** test”.
“Can’t I have that today?”
“The *** virus can take upto 3 months to manifest itself so any test conducted today would be extremely unlikely to show whether you are, or are not carrying the virus”.
Susie had thrown herself into her studies for the next 3 months. When not studying she partied hard. Alcohol helped her to forget for some of the time but, in the early hours of the morning she would wake up sweating.
“What if I am infected? Christ only knows how many other girls that bloke slept with before we had ***”.
Eventually the 3 months passed and Susie returned to the hospital for her *** test.
“You can call in for your results in a few days time or, if you prefer just telephone the number on your card quoting your clinic number” the nurse said handing Susie a small slip of paper.
Susie had meant to call. She really had. However there always seemed to be something preventing her from making that call. There had been her friend’s wedding, her mum’s birthday and so, so many other things.
“Don’t make excuses. Of course you could have found a few minutes to make such an important telephone call” the insidious voice whispered in her ear.
“Yes, OK, I could. now ******* back to whatever rock you crawled out from under” Susie shouted.
Slowly Susie raised the paper to her face.
“Dear Miss Armstrong,
I refer to your visit of 4 July and the test conducted on that date. We have, unsuccessfully attempted to contact you on several occasions. Having been unable to do so I am writing to inform you of the result of your test for ***. I am pleased to advise that the test is negative (I.E. you are not *** positive).
Should you have any queries regarding this letter please call the number above and quote your clinic number to the health adviser.

Yours Sincerely “.
Susie wondered idly why doctors signatures almost always resembled squashed spiders. For the first time in many hours she smiled.
“Thank you god. Thank you”.
The gulls screeched overhead, the icey wind buffeted the girl and the great waves continued to crash against the crumbling cliffs. Susie no longer cared. She embraced the storm for it represented nature of which she was an integral part. It felt good to be alive. Susie took deep breaths.  The touch of the wind on her face  was wonderful. She smiled as her long black hair blew wildly in the sea breeze.  
“If you exist god, thank you, thank you” Susie said.

My sister boasted to me one night in a Liverpool pub
She had *** with a couple of coppers down the Mersey Tunnel.
'You're nothing bit a fat slapper' I scolded her,
As she examined the selfie I had taken
Just a few moments earlier of me
And her best friend up against the ladies' bog door.
"Good likeness, innit?" I commented and the
She farted stentoriously in surprise and,
The follow-through oozed down her dimpled thigh.

Just turned sixteen
a rage of hormones
erogenous zones
no more sexting
or wet dreams
your sixteen
you have our permission
to give in to your impulses
full submission
your pulse races
no more wishing
release your inhibitions
but before you do hold up and listen.

You can't drink and drive
yet you can think of life
for now any thought you conceive
can legally achieve
a new life you can breed
Should anyone so young have this much power?
to class it as fun and be deflowered
just because you can attain an *******
stand to attention
gives you the right to create perfection?
- when love isn't even mentioned.

Should we raise the age limit?
Would teenage pregnancies plummet?
but you say
they will still do it anyway
regardless
they couldn't care less
do you blame parents?
- or carers?
Maybe we need
a better educational system
to teach them.

It’s the media that feeds
into the body image
a consistent mirage
a constant barrage
of so called celebrities
having *** on TV
With the skinny waist
fake *****
and high heels
what a waste,
you choose
how you feel.

Take time to pause
and hold onto what’s yours
for once lost
you will pay its cost
your virginity
is its own currency
people will value you more
or label you a *****
a ****, a slapper
a used ****** wrapper
go ahead tap her
she doesn't care
what you wear
or if you marry
take her cherry.

Just because it has a secondary function
doesn't mean you have to use your junk son.
the next time you get an *******
steer your mind in another direction
or at least use protection
so you don't spread STD's by infection
having *** so young can be tragic
take the time to think
or you may later regret it.

Don't give into peer pressure
Don’t use others as your measure
have *** at your leisure
when its your pleasure
when you're ready
not just because you've been going steady
protect your innocence
remain a princess
pretty in pink
abhor red
so think first
before bed.

Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.  
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.  
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.  
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my *****.  
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!

We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.  
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.  
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.

We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.  
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.  
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.  
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.

The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.  
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.  
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.

I want to be a tight man
a fight man
a get it when I can man
a hard man
a ladies man
a take when its there man
a bad man
a cad man
a wham bang and thank you ma'am.

I want to be a flirt man
a take a bit of skirt man
a **** man
a slapper man
a kiss em quick an part man.

I want to be a cheat man
a cheap man
a slip between the sheets man
a creep man
a street man
a leering ****** beer man.

I want to be a cold man
an ice man
but some say I'm too nice man?

The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.

By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.

Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.

As the summer teases, she writhes ******-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.

You know as well as I do
that internet dating can have its ups
and downs
and thus, after so many futile meetings
and tragic misadventures
in a domestic UK situation,
I decided to spread my wings
and so I logged on to an Australian website
for lonely kangaroo lovers
yes it was www.blackstump-legover.com.au
where no holes were barred.

And I soon struck up a promising friendship
with someone who sounded like
a real goer, a total slapper,
with no morals whatsover
judging from the photo she posted
taken with a mobile phone
up her skirt
which showed her muffin *****
as well as what she had eaten
for breakfast yesterday,
poking its head out.

We finally agreed to meet
behind the old dunny
in the park where the abos go
to exchange their social security vouchers
for crack *******
or a bottle of Castlemain XXXX
or a quick one up each others' bots
in spite of the pong
on a sunny arvo.

You can imagine how effing disappointed
I was when she arrived
on a trailer attached to her grandson's ute
strapped to a battered gurney
(and almost insensate)
but still ready for a bit of backdoor action
but not from me, no sirree,
thank you very much mate:
I might be desperate, but
I would have had to have
clipped my nose shut with a clothes peg
to get anywhere near her
and my gag reflex simply couldn't cope.

So I bravely dragged the gurney
over to the convenient gap
in the fence overlooking the mighty ravine
and with a gentle shove
I sent her to that sweet place
where peace can be found
and I can still hear her scream
as she bounced off the rocks
accusing me of being illegitimate
before silence reigned
and I smiled in joy.

It only goes to show, O my friends,
that there are female dogs
of the most hideous kind
on every sodding continent
on this dear planet of ours;
and I may as well stick to
a handful of Nivea cream
and a Kleenex, at least the odour
is wholesome.

Ah! 'twas so many moon ago
When I met young(ish) Diana
- Known as ***** Di to her friends
Because of her willingness
To gaily **** almost anyone
Provided he was well-hung and sweet-smelling.

Ah! Delightful Bracknell New Town,
Dormitory zone par excellence,
And home to dear little ***** Di,
A paradise where I fully intended
To sleep with her (and much more)
On our very first romantic date.

I felt a bit of slight extravagance
Would ensure a good bunk-up
So I checked out the GFG
For a reasonably priced
Candle-lit Italian restaurant
Within a 10 miles radius.

After a rather tasty nosh-up
We repaired to her proletarian home,
The very first time yours truly
Had ever been in a Council flat,
(and I was a bit anxious about
leaving my Audi A6 Turbo in the street).

As we headed for the bedroom
She asked me conspiratorily
To keep my ******* voice down
As her eleven year old ******* son
Was hopefully fast asleep, doped up
On a generous dose of paracetemol.

O how lustily we two copulated!
Indeed more than merely that;
How I took full advantage of
Her other delightful apertures;
One could safely say that
No holes were barred that night.

We were just in the middle of
Session numero quatro
Involving a vigorous *******
Bit of backdoor love-action,
When the bedroom door opened
And in walked little Reginald.

He said naught but only gaped
To see Mummy in flagrante delicto
(mercifully we were in the good old days
before mobile phones and iPads,
or else our ***** coupling
would have made the rounds of Year 5).

Oft times have I wisely considered
What impression that visual treat
Might have made upon his growing mind:
Was he emotionally scarred to find
His dear Mama was a total slapper
Who liked a bit of uninhibited botty-fun?

I doubt it - but I shall ne'er forget his cry,
So revealing was it of the mores
Of the aspiring lower classes:
*"For Christ's sake who's banging your fat **** this time, Mum,
Can't you keep the noise down, for once?
I've got ******* school in the morning."

Whoa.

See that yin?
Jist sittin there?
Ye ken how she’s sittin like that, don’t ye?
Well, whit’s she sittin oan?
Aye, her erse.
She’s only sittin like that
So ye ken she’s got an erse.
Gaggin fir it.

An whoa, check that yin!
Wearin claes!
Filthy cow!
Whit dae ye mean, “Whit dae ah mean”?
Claes!
Ye canny wear claes
If ye huvny got a boady, can ye?
That’s right –
Just screamin it, so she is –
“Check oot ma boady!”

Aye, ah wull an aw!
Don’t mind if ah dae!

Aw, mate – that yin!
That yin ower there!
Bendin her airm!
See her?
Bendin her airm like a mucky ****!
That’s so ye ken
She’s got elbows!
Phwoar, I ken your type hen –
you wi yir elbows an a’thin!
Desperate fur it, aren’t ye?

An man!  This yin,
walkin towards us!
Breathin in an oot!
Whit a slapper!
Breathin in an oot!
Aye, ye need a pair o lungs tae dae that,
I bet, eh, hen?
A pair o fine, functioning lungs!
Aye, you use them, doll –
dinny you be shy!
Ah’m no!

Aw pal, haud me back!
This yin!
This yin eatin a meat pie!
Shameless wee ****!
Aw yeah, baby,
I ken whit that means!
Mean’s ye’ve got yirsel
a **** wee digestive tract in there, no?
Ye dinny hae tae spell it oot tae me, love!
Probably got a pair o kidneys
tucked away in there too,
ye ***** wee *****!

Aw the same, ur they no?
Aw ae thum.
Gantin oan it.

Scunthorpe is justly famous for its ugliness
And the rampant lasciviousness of its inhabitants;
With what horror I recall encountering a gent there,
A seriously senior slapper, widely acclaimed as
The least inhibited pensioner in northern Lincolnshire.

In my gilded youth I'd wandered into the bar
Of some grotty hostelry and got propositioned by this old ****;
On the pretext of offering to gift me fifty quid
He dragged me upstairs and ravished me totally,  
Showing his elderly anatomy 's most private parts
In prurient abandon. Afterwards, I wondered how long
Before the myriad love bites on my buttocks would fade?

Real Not Fiction
A hole is a hole said the Mule
As he stuck his stump up a slapper
This saying was mirrored by another
Who told a story of his friends

And what recently happened
One long term friend has a gal
They’d been together 7 years
And planned to get married
Spending a lifetime together
Already lovers and more

You know how it goes
So to be happy in bliss
But a big problem arose
Another old school pal

Caused a fuss with the gal
Who was a guy before!
So now you’re a gal not a guy
How did that come about?
A trip to Thailand and cash
Lots of cash from her rich family

The school pal seeing the gal
Wasn’t aware of any of this
Just that he was in love
Happy and going to be married

To a gal who was once a guy
He was oblivious to this
Unlike the other ex-pupil
They gave the gal guy it
A week to tell her fiancé
All of the truth of they’d do it

I told the pal who knew them all
Make sure the guy who
Knew them all
Never killed the gal

Who was once a guy
Like the American one
What will happen
Within this week
Happiness or war?
A hole is a hole

Even if no kids
Reality not fiction
The Mule was right

Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like

one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug

taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside

her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her

back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by

the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,

seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,

foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway

her hips and ****, hands swinging,
gesturing.  She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in

his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a *****, a druggie slapper, she

said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.

He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,

smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and

she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.

i know nothing of you

but that you are anthropological
when you are inside unexplored diversities
that are not plums or peaches,
that you are a white siren with red nails  
and that you want my knickers
sent enveloped, and sealed with
plastic cobalt kisses.


i know nothing of you

but that when they say poets are not in season;  
you pluck me out lime-coloured and prematured
and tell me to ripen beside your afternoon tea
because you demand embryonic words
and pretty phrases that will keep you
animated and high.


you make me know not-

ions are unmarried clouds pregnant with ink;
yours are metabolic and invisible,
injecting sugar into my fallopian tubes.
you press your mouth against my sternum
and interweave your tongue with my heart,

                                                      we mould into a double helix.


you make us into nothing

but a genetically mutated flower
with two vulvas, collapsed between two pages
of a book that a ***** slapper would read
in the rain at two ams in between
****** acts and neon sunsets.

call the cops.
they cooking rocks
in a shanty town compound
its just how they get down
most denounceable settlement
heroine needles nettle men
shredded by early elements
surely only pure irrelevents
no evidence of life
that reflected
anything intelligent
they were like
hell with it;
preferred not
to confer the
elephant in the parlor
though of pachyderm stature
he still delicate & he starvin.

attention ya'll.
there's histrionic
insect larva writhing
inside dying bodies
of constants.
wanting nothing but to be alive
to watch the sky ***** lights
contrite with wasting time & space
decided to face what made the comets
atum & adam & atoms.
dizzy sassed her,
kiss me ***
slapper
pass the days faster
calmly
this was a disaster
it sounds so wrong
but
how else
do you say it.

it seems
there is no
safe explaination
that demons &
godless heathens
still hold faith in unseen reason
aurical feelings
bottomless meanings &
improbable teachings
exploring the being
& being anything
more than whimsy

Grampy
Needs stimulated,
Grammy is irritated.
The old slapper hand is the best tool for releasing
Down and ***** stress.
I think gram's is coming
Think I need best hide it.
Down boy, down!

jeg slapper af når du holder mig
jeg panikker når du ser mod mig
jeg græder når du sårer mig
jeg griner når du kilder mig


jeg fniser når du ler med mig
jeg væmmes når du går din vej
jeg skriger når du forlader mig
jeg sover når du elsker mig

There was another brother whom history forgets
And though born a fisherman, he preferred other nets.
The coterie of rink rats who lived on the Left Coast
Thought he was sine qua non, and they would often boast
He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.

His slapper had heat to make a goalie wet himself;
His wrister was money either five-hole or top-shelf.
After the goaltender felt another puck **** by,
He’d curse and bang the crossbar as fans took up the cry
He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.

He dominated rinks out West like no other man
From Calgary to Saskatoon, Fresno to Spokane.
He’d hat tricks in Winnipeg, six-point games in Moose Jaw
Moving scribes to hackneyed verse written in fits of awe.
He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.

Though the man was a fine skater, strong, agile and fleet
The slightest flaw in the ice caused anguish to his feet
And he would scold arena crews—What’d you call this mush?
‘Tis nothing but chips and ruts; I’d rather skate on slush!
(More prickly than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gio.)

After one match in Oakland on ice unduly rough
He stormed into the locker room, shouting ‘Nuff’s enough!
He didn’t change his sweater as he stormed out the door,
Hopping on a trolley car, to be seen never more
(He’s a bit loony, don’t you know.
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)

He was sighted in the Yukon, once or perhaps twice
Engaged in some mad mission to find the perfect ice.
Neither man nor beast can say what became of this fool,
Though bits of skate lace appear in petrified bear stool
(Tastes better than his brother Joe?
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)

early morning at the
coffee house
toasted sesame bagel with jam and cream
cheese
coffee and cigarettes
crazy sparrows jumping in the hedges
of the patio
you and the old men
steaming cups, unraveled
weekend edition of the newspaper
on tabletops
you and the sweet, quiet old men
only they understand

going for a long walk
you hear two boys shuffling behind on their
way
to soccer practice
singing about the sunny side
of the street
your blood sings with them
blood is not of a violent
theme
not today
it's what keeps you alive
keeps you moving along
loving more
wild smile on your face as if you know
the damnest joke
a real good knee-slapper
a killer
of all solemn thoughts and
a promiser to
to be better, behavior and heart
a re-fertilized mind
from now on and ever

entering the city
the day smells of beach nights
lingering scent of sunscreen, sand, dark ***,
vanilla cigarellos
the light turns green and you
step off the sidewalk
catching yourself in the
reflection of a skyscraper 
emerging
from a busting, exploding crowd
looking like you always wished you would
a ballerina on-the- go

you are not a ballerina
but you whisper thanks and
keep the magic of today in your back pocket
like a paycheck
you've been owed

Becoming fiercly personal
with no physical contact,
the crescent moon
ultimately occults the Venus.

The grazer now turns into
fugitive. Was not the knower,
was not the known.

No past, no future, you
move with your eyes down
to deny the assault, the flirtation.

Your silence was
unthinkable. I will bring home
the dead. Light is gone. The
slapper sleeps.

In emotional agony I
start prowling for the body.

magnets for misery melted into mouths,
molded lips made for malaise

the heavyhearted rock in between hips,
hot and hopeless

loneliness lives in lungs
the listless leaping of laborious breaths,
lugubrious lusting

souls ****** sadness,
**** songs of sorrow
somber little slapper
sleeps next to something sonorous,
slow sinking

We sit by the small pond
after school

Mother's still out shopping
Yehudit says
so we can sit
and talk awhile

the water's murky
no ducks or fish
in this small place

maybe tadpoles
or old boots
or ******* thrown in

trees surrounding
are still in leaf

no one must know
what we did
and where today
she says

I look at the tin can
lying on the side
of the muddy pond

as if I would
I say

if it got out
my mum'd **** me
she says

what about your dad?
I ask

he would **** me too
if Mum told him
he could

a blackbird settles
on a branch
on my left
black
yellow beak
noisy

but worse than that
what would the other girls say?

lucky you?

no they wouldn't
she says
they'd say what a slapper
what a ****
and there of all places

she's quiet
and stares at the pond

but you're not
we didn't plan it
I say

but we did it
and what if someone saw us
what if a teacher
or prefect came in the gym
lunchtime and saw us?

somewhere to our left
a dog barks
smell of the farm
just over a cow moos

no one did
I say
live what is
not what might have been
or may have happened

she sighs
and looks at me
with her blue eyes

guess so

she looks at the wrist watch
on my wrist

better go
Mum'll be back
on the next bus
she says

we get up
and brush ourselves down
and walk through the woods

it was good though
even if it was
an odd place
I say

odd being
the operative word
she smiles

the fear of someone
coming in
made it seem
more daring
I suggest

daring?
absolutely mad
she says
but yes
it was good

we came to the back
of the cottage
where I lived

shall I walk you home?

no best not
she says
Mum's not struck on you
thinks you might
get me into trouble

I frown
me?
but butter wouldn't melt
in my mouth
I say  

she smiles and walks on
I THINK IT WOULD
she shouts back at me
and walks out of sight

I turn into the garden
and along the path
thinking to myself
she's right.