Take this Man
I married you on a couch in Clarkenwell,
its stuffing the curls of groin-hair
that Sebastian had buzz-cut from clients.
We held hands as he dabbed the needle
in vodka, pressed its exquisite point
through the seam of my glans. Not once
did you glance from my face to watch
my testicles dance to the pain. We swapped
our vows in white-hard hand grasps and later
we kissed, my trousers loose on my waist
and a dribble of lust on my newest ring.
And seeing as the juices are flowing (so to speak), a more substantive revision to another one:
Stood outside the office, smoking
Winter spit taps on my skull:
cold drops print "you don't belong
out here" on the paving slabs.
These shoes I borrowed pinch
my toes and your coat's too thin
to keep the wind at bay. Still,
this morning's kiss still warms
my lips. I puff smoke between the rain
and respond: "you don't belong in me".