Ode to a Walnut

walnut 1

Foreign nut,
dull edible seed,
within a green
leathery pouch,
hidden within a

When picked
and peeled
you reveal
a skull to be cracked
or split,
exposing both
of a ligneous brain
that holds all
Mother Nature’s
a precious

a rigid,
wrinkled scrotum
locked in a
batsman’s box;

a wooden mollusc,
all timid inside
your weatherproof

Your kernels
are cracked
then added
to bread,
to cake
or salad.

In China
you are rolled
in the palm
for vital
(a symbol of health
and status);
whilst here
you are called
by such names as
Chandler, Hartley
and Lara.

As I pop you
into my mouth,
by the open fire
on a dim
Christmas morning,
the overture
from the nutcracker
I cradle
a festive bowl
full of your fellows–
the final resting place
of your comestible


Your naked body,
in a way,
speaks enough poetry
to fill the entire bedspread.

And then you tell me
you don’t believe me,
you say

I have a dependence on romance,
I’m in need of an inamorata, that
I’m not truly in love.

From the incline of your nape,
to the curve of your waist,
to the heat of your cunt –

poetry –

sad poetry.

Cleopatra Bathes in Milk

Milk erotic

She sits waist deep in the pool as servants scoop
and pour the milk, with a ceramic jug,
upon her exposed body, cloaking her chin
and throat like a sheet; a thick white torrent
reinvigorating parched nipples,
washing over her light-olive nakedness.
The cascade moves like the hands of eager
lovers: multiple, simultaneous.

Her hair now an oil slick: black, wet and viscid,
she plunges into the opaque pool and vanishes
into white; last to descend are the curves
of her buttocks – a perfect, heart-shaped island.

Resurfacing, she frisks – the milk thickens and froths,
as her manservants stiffen beneath their cloths.

What are Poets Made of?

What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Slugs and snails
And puppy-dogs’ tails,
That’s what little boys are made of.
–        “What are Little Boys Made of?”
Traditional 19th Century Nursery Rhyme


A lustful magpie’s mind-set,
An unlimited token for love,
Skin of a salamander,
An undying, sailor’s grudge,
Undertakers’ coattails,
Two buckets of rusty screws,
Contents of the chopping block
The haruspex has used,
A blue movie membership
Of the lifetime sort,
A traitorous bout of self-doubt
Cracked taut like a cattail’s cord.

This is what poets are made of,
And I’m sure that you can count,
You may know the right ingredients
But not the right amounts.

A Place of Worship


The way the girls twist,
wrapping themselves
around chrome rod,
is the most natural of things
like water flowing,
a flower opening.

And what would their catholic fathers say
if they could see them now?
Which circle of Hell would have a cage
reserved for them?

And yet, where else
would you expect to find God
on a Thursday night
but seated on the leather
of the VIP longue
of a Teasers
or The Blue Moon Club.

He Himself
is not so great to ignore
the stone boredom of the churches.

After all,
between the long, honeyed legs,
among the five inch heels
and the laser lightshow –
this is a religious experience.

In fact,
just the other day I heard
some old boys begging
with an
Oh God!
and a
Sweet Jesus!