La trace fluide du chemin parcouru. La traversée de Cap-aux-Meules à Souris IPE.

A site to bring together my poems. Love them or hate them, but please leave a comment. Filming funerals in Hendon, London, sitting in the cold Crematorium chapel, reading the memorials whilst waiting for things to begin. I have not made this up. We worked three days amongst the dead,. Bubble of busy-ness in their. Not the Chinese, sober slabs. Slashed with gold logograms; nor the. Italians, severe in studio photographs,.

Preface to January 7 March 13, 2015. Enter your email address to subscribe and receive notifications of new posts.

I ask what you want. I might roll my eyes. When I think of you. I happily spend my time. Picking bits out of the marmalade. Showing I still love you. That you still love me. Just as I feel your cold feet on my legs. Like the pull of tide and moon. Unable to avoid your skin. The soft trace of your mouth. And the warmth of your hand on my chest.

We all mask our inner naughty. I got that boom boom bass. That makes your panties all wet. It keeps me running through your mind. Even though we just met. You keep looking at your phone. You keep answering my calls. You greet me on your knees. You now begin to tease. You drop my pants and hear the jingle. Making your thighs want to mingle. Making your quivering lips tingle.