brighton: new neighbourhood


porn stars and pilots

malevolent land gulls and girls

who smell like parma violets

dead mouse

that roadhouse feel

behind bars or planchas

disproportionately gummy

inky tarantulas

freshly pressed blondes

sharp nose and sourdough

an unforgivable scene

deep ellum grove

it sounds like a blue note

tender control

fleet geeks and herberts

little jack’s corner

coca cola and sherbet

floor her and fawn her

pubic transpurt

Long Road, Clapham Common

oh, why can’t we just have sex?

you like me and i like you

so why can’t we just do it?

yes, right here in this bus stop

ok, well, maybe not here

but somewhere close by

in the very near future

why can’t that happen?

i don’t understand

no, i don’t want to talk any more

and coffee gives me gas

dinner?  don’t push it, love

i just want to have it off with you

you know, in the old fashioned way

naked, just the two of us

no talking, only porking

a date? oh for fuck’s sake

the moment’s going, love

why can’t we just bang?

instead of holding hands

and me trying to make you laugh

and saying anything

literally, anything

to get your clothes off

things along the lines of

“yes, my favourite colour’s teal” and

“no, i want to take my time, too…”

do i shit!

all i want to do is hump you senseless

on the futon back at my flat

it would be great

we could do loooooads of jiggy jig

and then eat jaffa cakes

and watch Match of the Day

what do you say?

what do you mean you’ve got to go?

your bus is here?

the number eight?

brilliant, that’s near where i’m staying

we could bonk on the bus

if you’re running late

or on the steps of your house

if you really can’t wait

hey, don’t look at me like that

like i’m some dirty perv

only after one thing

what a nerve! As if!

is that what you think of me?

we’ve only just met

and all I can think of

is parting your legs?

that is pretty astute, to be fair

so, yeah…

is this going anywhere?

i didn’t think so

you made it quite clear

when you called the police

when i sniffed your hair

though, it’s not all bad

the cop shop’s right next to my gaff

i can walk home from there



six legs, six breasts

and the rest

my greatest invention yet

with all three of her heads

turning heads

they’re tricky to ignore

for sure

they’ll leave you impressed

impeccably dressed and manicured

it’s impossibly hard to remove them

from shoe stores

a force to be reckoned with

sexually speaking

it might be the night of your life

that stitched-up foursome

of which you’ve been dreaming

but taking part

is not for faint heart

but if you think you can take it

i give you fair warning that

they’re a pretty freaky naked lot

and in the light of the morn

they resemble

an amputee pawn shop
and if you’re wondering

which one’s the “real” her?

she’ll soon let you know

when she’s full of tequila

on a saturday night

and dancing to bieber

and you try to feel her

and two pairs of legs

remain on the floor

while one pair swing up

and your balls are no more



Rose is a tricky flavor to work with; it is usually applied in its distilled liquid form and a few drops is all you need. It overpowers quickly, consuming your palate and, if you’re not prudent, it can leave you feeling overwhelmed. Giddy, even.

The carriage is redolent with it’s scent. It’s particularly pungent for me because I’m next to the source.

She is sat, leaning forward, head bowed, over the flip down tray in front of her. Every thirty seconds or so, with a delicate flick of her little finger and a pinch of index and thumb, she hovers, selects and then delivers a nugget of Turkish delight to her impatient plump tongue; each gelatinous cube leaving a trace of icing sugar on her lips.

“Mmm.. I lo-ooo-ve pistachio…” she fires across my bow, before swilling her mouth with mineral water and smiling, a fragment of the aforementioned nut lodged resolutely in her front teeth.

Framed against the miserable grey suburbs rolling past the window, her beauty is illuminated.

Natural, unpretentious and laced with the merest promise of decay. Although, I notice her perfume is unpleasant; a strange, sour blend of spray tan and samosas.

Her hands are exquisite. The graceful lines of her wrists don’t disappoint, leading to slender, tapering fingers tipped with a burgundy polish.

Oddly, her every other anatomical feature possesses a most intriguing quality. In fact, one similar to the very confectionery she is consuming now. Turkish delight is always fashioned into slightly misshapen, bloated cubes and she, too, has this burgeoning, retentive design. It’s commensurate with her youth and her glucose consumption, I guess.

Her pert, full breasts strain against the cloth of her top, imprisoned against their will by a black lace bra.

They would release themselves, if they could, I know it, in a riot of common sense.

I journey to the lowlands, the prairie of the ego and begin a sojourn familiar to most males of a certain age when faced with young flesh; a place where time slows to a frame per second or less, where myriad fantasies gallop unfettered, like wild mustangs.

“Would you like one?” Again, the smile. The nut still presiding.

The house of cards tumbles down right on cue.

But I collect myself, shifting my weight in my seat to better face her.

“Yes. Yes, I would, thank you.” I say, smiling and managing to briefly lift my gaze, first to her eyes and then to the hexagonal box of rubbery nubs she’s wafting in front of me.

In a turn of events that I can’t truly remain blameless for, my hand reaches toward the box but skims over the sweets, diving purposefully between the light white cotton of her top and her warm soft skin. Soon, I feel the coarse webbing of her bra grating against the back of my fingers.

I don’t break her stare, her pupils dilate and her jaw slackens, moving almost imperceptibly up and down as I squeeze, her nipple hardening between my thumb and forefinger.

After just the right amount of time, I slowly remove my hand, returning it to my lap. We are still locked deeply, eye to eye.

She looks down and arranges her clothes in silence; time has slowed again, she is being deliberately deliberate, playing with me.

She places the box back on the tray. The elegant crane hovers again, eventually choosing and delivering a piece to me this time.

The soapy skin taste of her thumb works well, I think, supplying another dimension to the orange blossom flavor; she then slowly withdraws it, allowing me to suck clean the powdery residue. She feeds me a few more, delicately, in her measured way.

It’s a memorable experience, particularly fun. At one point, whilst demolishing a dusty lemon blob, she kisses me and for a moment I can’t tell what is sweet and what is tongue; the flavors intensifying with every laborious chew.

Together, we finish the box and sit for a while, licking our fingers and lips.

With a giggle, she lays her hand on my knee and leans in and whispers,
“Hi, I’m Rose.”