The Internet

Vast pool of nectar, endless swollen lake,
your taste is so addictive, such a gift –
you tempt the hopeful, minds are set adrift
on journeys for their own intrinsic sake.
Exploring islands kindred spirits make,
where wraith companions change with each wind shift.
Your captivating channels carve a rift
between real life and this, a dream awake.

The internet is fantasy designed
to mimic an exclusive, rich resort.
A haven we accept as undeserved.
We visit there whenever we’re inclined
to sip on sweet illusions we have wrought.
Enchantment, like champagne but unreserved.

Growing Silence

Growing silence separates,
only habit still relates
in a bond of trials shared.
Seems they never really cared.
Empty longing infiltrates.

They’re imprisoned by the fates,
every choice, the past dictates
and the future has them scared.
Growing silence.

Feigning, neither hesitates,
separately, each meditates,
contemplates steps never dared,
yearning, scorning to be spared.
Recognises and awaits
growing silence.

Growing silence separates,
only habit still relates
in a bond of trials shared.
Seems they never really cared.
Empty longing infiltrates.


The surface shimmers with reflections waiting for
my toes to merge with their own imagery,
then ripples wrap my aching arch before
I step into the womb of luxury.
A hedonistic lowering of limbs
is slowly escalated into bliss –
as water rises, reaching bathtub rims,
immersion aids seduction with its kiss.
My worry stains wash off and then dissolve
while warmth massages flushing, heated skin.
A careworn creature leaves as I evolve
into myself again, renewed within.
Such private pleasure is a joy sublime,
erotic moments soaking up the time.

Make Love

Close the lid on rational thought
wrought within a coffered mind.
Wind a way through acts untaught,
caught enchanted, lust inclined.
Find emotions that embrace
base sensations, pulsing flows.
Chosen pleasures blithely chase,
race with rapture in love’s throes.

Party People

Who Climbed on the Climber?

False accents stretching truth-scraps into webs
that glitter prettily, are only meant
for social climbers. Conversation ebbs
if ego-boosting isn’t the intent.
Zirconias and diamonds side by side
convince the group you fit. You love those props –
French nails and French knickers worn with pride
are waggled as you taste the gossip crops.
Your thoughts are all of silly secrets shared –
from partner swopping with the richest men,
to chins that electrolysis has bared.
You’ve long forgotten comments like one when
a friend’s mum saw your house, “I can’t allow
my daughter to attend your party now.”

Who Lost the Loser?

The weedy girl who longs for Mr Right
to pluck her off the wall, would be all eyes
if he approached her late one dreamed-of night
and tried a pick-up line. He’d mutter lies
her mirror could deny, so doubt would lock
her tongue and legs – until defensive mode
began to sabotage her chances – mock
his words, avoid the eyes where interest glowed.
That glass of foreign courage doesn’t quench
her thirst for confidence… but one more might…
She wants to be a player, leave the bench
to join the game, instead of feeling fright.
But contact sports are for the fit and strong
and she has been a loser all along.

Who Whined to the Whiner?

She reapplies her lipstick and her smile,
resigned, although she’d rather be in bed.
Her queries act as oral stand-ins while
she waits to whine of stressful work instead.
The prize for being put-upon is hers
and cronies understand each time a tale
reiterates her grievances. Their purrs
are grumbles that reveal they’re growing stale.
The music frees her head from knee-jerk fears
and she can twirl in complicated moves;
pre-disco steps she hasn’t changed in years
are comforting. Age settles into grooves.
She’ll dance around the issue with old zest;
her worn-out mother also knows what’s best.

Who Heard the Listener?

Subdued, you stand and sip your sparkling wine,
suspecting huddles (loudly unaware
of your arrival) guess that magazines define
your conversation. Turning, you compare
the weather with the forecast, then you ask
a sour woman who she knows. You chose
so well, she’s glad to have the chance to bask
in some attention; an alliance grows.
The mention of a filmstar scandal sets
her off. You nod and murmur, leaning in,
repeat a phrase on dieting. It whets
her appetite for quotes on staying thin.
You parrot what you’ve heard, safe from attack.
No father lets his daughter answer back.

Who Used the User?

One wicked eyebrow lifts and captivates
the audience by daring what they dream;
pretending to be careless titillates
the ones who dread they’re losing all their steam.
Manipulation is a spoon you stir
to mix reactions where you have a stake.
Perhaps a counter-plot nonsequitur
will be an unplanned icing on your cake.
Your boredom drives creative urges that
develop into private broadway hits
where players follow scripts that leave them flat
on faces you forget. You live for skits
and you don’t understand what pathos means.
You’ll stumble solo in your future scenes.

Divorced From Loyalty

A spoken pledge once held the force
of some fanatic’s fervent vow.
A signed and witnessed paper now
is shredded and there’s scant remorse.

To swear an oath is to endorse
a heartfelt wish. But time can plough
deep furrows through your needs. Allow
your promise pause, if not divorce.

If love is just a foolish ruse,
demanding loyalty, is fault
defunct? In a relationship,
when troubles test commitment, choose-
protect your contract in a vault
of tears, or simply let it rip.


When nightmares gallop over frozen thought,
a pounding heartbeat drones in false alarm
to paralyse a creature, spotlight-caught.

The terror stuns. Undone and overwrought,
unhinging tremors shudder through each palm
when nightmares gallop over frozen thought.

A brooding, storm-like force that’s tension fraught
soon kidnaps all volition, mocking calm,
to paralyse a creature, spotlight-caught.

In panic, petrifying shame is brought
to bear on self belief. Dread authors harm
when nightmares gallop over frozen thought.

Disabled, I’m devoid of courage sought
in prayers; all fight or flight. There is no balm
when nightmares gallop over frozen thought
to paralyse a creature, spotlight-caught.


The nectar of emotion overflows –
her molten fears unfrozen in full force;
a tidal wave, then ebbing, as her woes
escape between damp lashes on their course;

A brimming sap, each seeping droplet lost
like precious pearls he’s stolen from her heart –
to live a life with passion there’s a cost,
when bonds of love and need are torn apart.

Remembrance of a thrilling timelessness
may temper tears as she recalls devine
fulfilment, such a flood of happiness,
that also lent her eyes a liquid shine.

To taste the wine of love needs sacrifice:
an altar will await the weeping price.

The Streets of Net Lingo

A ballad to be sung to the tune of The Streets of Laredo

As I wandered into a chatroom one evening
As I wandered face-less, I chose a new name
I logged in and then I assumed my persona
My name was a mask I could proudly proclaim

The list of the chatrooms was seemingly endless
The list was divided by interest and age
I clicked on my decade and watched as they chatted
I watched as their words quickly scrolled up the page

The names that were chatting were cause for amusement
Some names were so clever they showed me a face
But faces are masks there, I knew from my own one
And romance buds falsely at too fast a pace

I read what they said there and thought I could comment
I read and I thought I could challenge them all
They seemed to be stuck in a rut of agreement
Agreement, flirtation, behind that chat wall

My challenge unnoticed, at first I was shattered
My challenge, “Define that, please say what you mean”
But answers came slowly and wisecracks came quickly
Discussion soon lit up all over my screen

I heard silent laughter, all types and all typed in
I heard hehe-haha and wanted to scoff
But Lots Of Laughs really, so R.-O.-F-.L.-ing
I Rolled On the Floor Laughing, Laughed My A. Off

A personal message then flashed up before me
A personal message from one old masked rat
I thanked all my stars then that only I saw it
The personal invite to tête a tête chat

‘Though I soon remembered the masks and flirtations
Flirtations so many seem tempted to try
Yet still I responded and joked though despondent
The mask I was wearing, a masquerade lie


Some moral fibre stretches in the dark
that offers us a cloak in which to stray.
Temptation circles, dolphin turned to shark,
as black and white merge into silver grey.

These shadows shine like treasures beckoning
but greys of in-between will only gleam
for tempting moments, then the reckoning:
when consequences shatter such a dream.

Beliefs are founded on a culture changed,
so many now pursue what once was wrong:
priority for choice is rearranged
in shady corners when the light’s too strong.

We weakly claim to satisfy a need,
betraying with a self-indulgent greed.