G-Spot

I wonder where all of the PVC people will go now
that G-Spot has closed down
it’s a terrible shame.

It was happily there at the back of the city
covered with ivy,
in between a pool hall
and an overgrown cemetery,
visited by no one,
pulled up to in taxis,
never did any harm,
except to the masochists.

Oh G-Spot, oh G-Spot
you came,
like an epiphany,
I never went in you
but you reminded me, somehow,
of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

But they opened up a bar
just across the precinct
with it’s goldfish bowl windows
blinking like lenses

And then they opened a theatre
just across the road
with a glass fronted entrance
of glittering gold.

And then they opened a venue
just across the way
and it opened each night
and glittered till day.

You held on for dear life
just as long as you could,
but the PVC people
were slightly alarmed

They were shuffling in corsets
and darting around lamp posts
slinking out of cars
wrapped up in trenchcoats

I saw a woman wearing bunny ears
shove them in her pocket
and bunny shuffle backwards
with her handbag round the cotton

There was only so long
and G-Spot closed down
the people all went
with their hold ups
and knee highs
and collars and masks.

Do they go the theatre?
Will you turn into a bar?
Will the PVC people
all go there and dance?

Oh G-Spot, Oh G-Spot
where did you go?
it took years to find you –
I never knew you were there,
at the end of my road.

Oh G-Spot, Oh G-Spot
Oh mythical place
Oh sex in the city
Oh strap-ons and lace

And then you were gone,
disappeared out of view,
your sign taken down
your neon removed

Oh G-Spot, Oh G-Spot
replaced by the new.
When I look the theatre
I’m thinking of you.

First Draft – G-Spot

I wonder where all of the PVC people will go now
that G-Spot has closed down
it’s a terrible shame

It was happily there at the back of the city
covered with ivy,
in between a pool hall
and an overgrown cemetery
visited by no one
pulled up to in taxis
never did any harm
except to the willing

Oh G-Spot, oh G-Spot
you came
like an epiphany
I never went in you
but you reminded me, somehow
of Breakfast at Tiffany’s

But they opened a theatre
just across the road
with a glass fronted entrance
of glistening gold

and G-Spot closed down
the people all went
in a shimmering tussle
of hold ups and masks

Do they go the theatre?
will you turn into a bar?
will the PVC people
go there and dance?

Oh G-Spot, Oh G-Spot
where did you go
it took years to find you
I never knew you were there
at the end of my road

And then you were gone
disappeared out of view
your sign taken down
I still think of you.

Wasp Stung, Draft

My friend says
when she was young
she’d been stung
then fallen pregnant.

She boils water in a saucepan
steeps tea, stirs sugar.

My friend says
a rastaman,
in the mountains
had predicted it

then takes a call
from from her daughter
cradling the phone
as she walks from the kitchen

My stung hand is tingling
on the cover of my duvet,
wrist burning orange fires
green mountains, red sunsets.

Oh wasp stung, wasp stung
wasp stung and over 30.

And the sky outside is velvet bright,
night fallen, moon pregnant.

Wasp Stung

My friend says
when she was young
she’d been stung
then fallen pregnant.

She boils water in a saucepan
steeps tea, stirs sugar.

My friend says
a rastaman
in the mountains
had predicted it

then takes a call
from her daughter
curls a finger
round a wire.

My stung hand is tingling
on the cover of my duvet,
wrists burn like hot irons
black coal, dull fire.

Oh wasp stung, wasp stung
wasp stung and over 30.

And the sky outside is velvet bright
night fallen, moon pregnant.

The Don’t Look Dance

On Sunday nights we would sit
in a paisley lounge with coke and lilt.
My mother would have a Barley wine,
my father a beer or tomato juice.

And we would watch:
Hercule Poirot,
Miss Marple, Morse,
Inspector Wexford.

And the light would bathe us
like a family of moles,
our coffee table like a tiny throne,
the frames on the walls would softly glow,
my brother and I, in uniforms.

But my mother would sit on the edge of her seat
and as the music flickered to the murder scene,
she would be up and on her feet,
closing the distance from sofa to screen,
holding her skirt like a crinoline shield
and doing, the don’t look dance.

My mother would do the don’t look dance
in front of our analog telly,
she’d hold up her skirt like a sunray,
her floral print for Marilyn’s pleats.

And behind the skirt
was Inspector Hastings,
a body in a stairwell,
blood on a carpet.

Behind her skirt
were the Brixton riots
and the miners strike
and Chernobyl exploding.

My mother would do the don’t look dance,
she would dance the hono loo loo

and anything with
shards or knives,
or anything with blood,
would be flowers or stripes
or polka dots –

something comfortable,
something good,

like the fish we’d had for lunch,
with parsley sauce and mash,

or the visit to Clarks
to measure our feet,

the coats she bought
to keep us clean –

and in the evenings
the way she’d stand
in front of the screen,

like a lunar eclipse,
a disturbing dream.

And behind her skirt
was Michael Buerk
in 1985, in Ethiopia.

Behind her skirt
was the boy next door
and grandma’s dementia,
my brother’s leukeumia.

My mother would dance
a Torvell and Dean
for famine and suffering
and war torn fields.

My mother would do
a jazz hands shimmy
for Malaria, Typhoid
and malnutrition.

My mother would do the don’t look dance
in front of our bubble TV
and she’d hold out her skirt
like a fire curtain,
her floral prints
for Monroe’s pleats.

She’d hide me from all of the hurting,
she’d cover the wounds of the world,
she’d fill that small room with her caring,
but I never understood.

My mother would do the don’t look dance,
the don’t look dance,
the don’t look dance.

My mother would do the don’t look dance,
but now, I can’t look away.

Wasp Stung

My wasp stung hand
is having sympathy
for my not wasp stung hand
so the latter is feeling wasp stung
lying in my lap.

My friend says
when she was young
she’d been stung
then fallen pregnant.

She boils water in a saucepan
steeps tea, stirs sugar.

My stung hand is tingling
on the cover of my duvet
wrists burn like silver comets
cold bullets, red irons.

My friend says
a rastaman
in the mountains
had predicted it

then takes a call
from her daughter
black phone
gold flowers.

Oh wasp stung, wasp stung
wasp stung and over 30.

And the sky outside is velvet bright
night fallen, moon pregnant.

This evening,
the room holds us in it’s bowl of light
we curl our knees into our bodies,
pot plants are palm trees.
You are sitting on the nearside of the sofa,
we are holding a strand of silence.
Outside, darkness settles on the road.
And love is the streetlamp, the window,
love is the road sign, the teacup, your fingers
curled into my hair, your jaw, the books
resting on our table,
folded in their jackets.