There’s a swingers party of one
in the hall of mirrors
Duke calls a gymnasium.
The critically acclaimed author
of unintentional comedy,
“My Glamourous Glutes”
is too busy licking his reflections
to notice the twins
have learnt to climb like cat burglars.
Gale force winds send his teetering tiny tots
toppling over the balcony.
Catatonic with self-admiration,
Duke is oblivious to their screams.
The founder of the world’s first selfie stick museum,
can’t afford to be distracted
from flexing his eight pack.
Duke might have spotted the enemy drone,
if he weren’t dreaming about fucking his clone.
Fearful of marring such perfection,
the contract killer hesitates too long.
Duke retreats to the bottom
of his rooftop diving pool.
Transfixed by underwater mirrors,
he forgets to take a breath.
His wife collapses in the doorway,
paralytic with grief.
Duke looks more vibrant in death,
than she does in life.
I got sucked into looking at one of those online slide shows. It was 100 pictures of women’s beauty and clearly about more than base gratification. There was a vast array of cultural beauty on display, often in idyllic settings. Whoever compiled the list was careful to be representative of the whole world, including those who are the minority everywhere, the visibly disabled. They weren’t overly biased towards youth either. Well, that’s what I thought at first.
Where is Africa, I began to wonder. Has it sunk into the sea since last night? Is it only those with white, tea and coffee coloured skin that can swim? I suppose it’s unreasonable to expect every compilation to say it all, but with a hundred pictures and nobody nearly as black as I am white, I was disappointed, for a variety of reasons.
Forget midday, twilight, dusk and nothing darker! Black is bliss. Ignoring African skin is forgetting the spirit that resides within. Every shade of the flesh rainbow is as exquisite as fingertips gliding across liquid satin, as loaded with passion and wonder as God.
* By God I mean all of the love, beauty, joy and creativity in existence, not a supreme individual.
With ballerina elegance,
Ruby banishes the brilliance of lesser champions.
She doesn’t blast her opponent’s shots into plywood,
like a crude assassin,
her equivalent of a knockout blow
is as gentle as the valet parking of a vintage Rolls.
As nonchalantly as a child skimming stones across a pond,
she nudges resting touchers into the oblivion of the ditch.
Ruby’s admiration for her adversary’s finest moments
and respectful silence during their botched attempts at glory,
are as legendary as her invincibility.
Others pursue victory, Ruby chases beauty.
The glimmer in the tropical depths of her eyes intensifies
as she sends another shimmering, sailing ship embossed, bowl
arcing across a youthful summer green,
with impossible precision.
Inglewood Lawn Bowling Club, by Bill Longstaff
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As the searing breeze
and the breath of the storm collide,
writhing branches snap
and float to earth.
The furnace eyed man
swats them aside like mosquitoes.
The bruising upon his bones
is as ignored as a bent eye lash.
Rain strikes the pavement
like a swarm of crystal bullets.
Lightning destroys the tree
he climbed that morning.
Flood waters devour the path
he walked moments ago.
His pain must be transformed into beauty.
The agony refinery must be built
before death intervenes.
In the half light, Rosemary disrobed
as unselfconsciously as a Burlesque Princess.
In her sing song voice,
Angela spoke of the benefits of Neroli Oil,
stroked into the glistening, lily white, back
of her favourite flower arranger.
Angela separated her petite guest
from perfume scented black lace
and continued her spiel.
‘Neroli, the oil of the orange blossom,
is named after Italian Royalty.
It infuses a calm cheerfulness
into listless, despairing hours.
It’s a current upon which to drift
into the world of dreams
and a wetter of appetites.
Her willing captive lay down
upon silk sheets.
The room was awash with sultry jazz.
Angela poured the carrier oil
on to the bedazzled beauty’s baby smooth skin.
Her soothing hands
glided over the contours of Rosie’s back.
Drops of Neroli plummeted from the bottle.
The anointed purred in contentment
long before Angie’s feathery finger strokes
reached the zenith of her thighs.
Tremors radiated from Rosie’s core,
from Angie’s voice and nothing more.
Her breathe quickened
as her host displayed the menu of finales.
She paid in roses injected with rainbows.
Once she’d thought her erotic sorceress
as unobtainable as a lone gem,
buried somewhere atop Kilimanjaro.