"Look straight in my eyes or you'll have bad sex."
she said as she stared and we clinked our glasses.
I tried to be clever and quickly replied
"There's no such thing as bad sex."

"You speak as a man or you wouldn't say that.
The things I could tell you about my ex.
He thought he should do just whatever he liked
and walked over me like a doormat."

My joke had misfired but I didn't turn back
and I asked her just what did she mean.
"I'm not even sure you would understand
considering how stupid you've been.

But maybe it's due to the male situation
being different for humans and animals.
When young men want sex and then find they can't get it,
it's the women they blame not more powerful males.

Resentment builds up and the feeling develops
that females are something to conquer.
Sure, men fall in love but when tenderness fades,
underneath there's a layer of rancour.

And matters get worse now the internet shows
pornography freely available
for men can't resist the temptation to watch
women making debasement saleable.

What once were perversions are now merely tricks
which men expect women to do as of right;
when randy they can't think of anything but
the thrill in their heads and the twitch in their pricks.

Without any love sex becomes domination
with too many women demeaned and degraded
and even in love men vent their frustration
on women presumed to accept being jaded."

I started to feel I had heard quite enough,
recalling some times when sex hadn't gone well
for my wife because I had enjoyed being rough.
I stood there embarrassed and guilty as hell.

"Alright." I admitted, "My comment was wrong.
Apologies both for myself and your ex."
"Well, thank you." she said, "But I'll bid you 'so long'.
Just remember my eyes and Don't Do Bad Sex."

Posted by Michael at 01:35 0 comments

What pleases the eye may not please the mind
but both are needed together to start
the arc in the rain from the sun behind
that fires the brain and enthralls the heart.

What is saddest about grief is that it fades,
like memories whose colours drain away and sharp lines blur.
The once life-threatening wound of grief gradually heals.
Some deny this, wanting to keep their injury as intact
as their loved one's bedroom. They pick at scabs,
preferring the poignant pain to numb insensibility,
guarding their wound as a badge of honour.
Yet over time the raw flesh seals;
the scar can be touched without wincing.
But the shrine created for their loved one
has become more important than its dedication.
After all the turmoil, it must not spoil.
Distraught, they cannot put aside the thought
that to stop grieving is to be disloyal.

Where do they come from?

Where were they hiding?

After you thought you'd got rid of them all !

You just look down

and there they are -

the little specks that the vacuum let fall.

Old folks care home

We pity them as they doze in line,
Death Row in cosy armchairs,
waiting in limbo for their turn
unknowing or past cares.

But when they sleep, what do they dream ?
Might loved ones re-appear
in dream-time's vivid reality
so that they once more hear

their darlings' speak and hold them close
and kiss their tears away ?
Then 'Pass' on pity; do not stay.
Though Heaven's a dream, dreams can be heaven.

I like to think myself broadminded
so, when at the gym I kept on seeing
time after time the same two women,
I didn't care that they looked like dykes.

The Belle was dusky young, attractive;
the Butch was white, hair cropped and older,
and obviously the boss who'd shoulder
responsibility for them both.

They exercised apart quite often
with slimmer Belle working the harder
while laid-back Butch appeared to guard her
from any outside interest.

I had met eyes with Belle a few times
and hadn't been totally rejected !
One evening then, while feeling dejected
I thought I'd ask her for a drink.

Then thought again and soon decided
better to go through Butch considering
that she might think my interest threatening
her own relationship with Belle.

I cracked a joke with Butch in passing
and talked about the gym, then whether,
since she and Belle were there together,
they both would join me for a drink.

She answered me with instant frankness
"We don't have time. It's me that brought her.
I'm only here to please my daughter."
Broadminded ?  Maybe.  Stupid ?  Yes.

Until two minutes ago these were the band,
the evening's star attraction.
Their raucous introduction to the stage
permitted no distraction;

their brand of classic rock and roll had spanned
decades of memories
among their aging fans; their pulsing beat
and vocal harmonies

put smiles on faces, rhythm into feet
and fire into reveries.
Instrumental solos set fingers tapping
and local dignitaries

got up to dance amid good-natured clapping.
The crowd demanded encores
and the band responded, closing their set
to gratifying applause.

Now the low murmur of conversation
seems like silence. No longer the centre
of attention the players start to case
their instruments, dismantle their equipment,
manhandle amps and speakers. No roadies
here for a gig in a pub. This is not
the stadium to which their youthful dreams
aspired. Do they play for the applause,
enjoyment of creating music
or just the money ? The leader signs
the receipt, accepts the cash and shares
it round. Back home soon to a nightcap,
wife and bed. Up for work tomorrow.
But next week has another booking.