spaghetti man

you streak of pasta piss,

virtually useless fucker

without heat, wetness, you are brittle

easily snapped into fragments.

when you are done you cling,

wanting to stick, to stay

inside my convulsing walls.

you are bland, you taste

of nothing.

You fill me up but

it is me that adds flavour.

Today, arrabiata,

tomorrow, you go back 

to your ground up dusty future.

next poem-->

Get off the fence...

You say "The thought of being with you again is fantastic but as you said it wouldn't change how things are in real life. I know that basically states that it would be great to have a one night stand but that isn't what I mean."



You say "In an ideal world I would like to see and be with you in the knowledge that neither of us are pressured afterwards."

 

You say "But I love my wife, and my family."

 

I wait.  You say all this moral crap but you don't believe it, and if I would absolve you upfront of the consequences of any feelings I might have as a result you would risk it like a shot, like a rabbit down a hole, your cock rising as if it feeds on air. 

 

But still, I do wait.

Quiet Loud

Outside there are groans.  They sound weird in a foreign language.  German groans.  Guttural with porn star moustaches.  The upstairs neighbour always wears high heels to clack across their floor and they have no curtains or nets at all and the block is right in the town centre.  I pulled my curtains off by accident  when I was fucking him on the sofa and had to live in the gloom of closed shutters for days until I got my head back together enough to think about nailing them back up.  I'd like to be groaning.  I wonder why when I'm alone I come so quietly and yet with someone I'm loud like I'm putting on a performance.  I assume it's the lady of the house upstairs that wears the heels, not tranny size 10's and hairy calves teetering about.  Even the cats miaou differently here. I'm going to go and be quiet.





oh, by the way, loudQUIETloud trailer here