Saturday 5 June 2010

Urinal song.











































I love the sound of piss on zinc

It reminds me of Donna's sleepy tales
of rain on Trinidad tin roofs
that she told me as we lay
in a Gloucester park
she reeked of

 passion

and coconut oil.



The downpour
on the corrugated school bike shed
where Mandy and I
traded tobacco smoke laden kisses
and held our own geography lessons



The rusty dutch barn
in which we made hay
and then hasty crop circles
in that hay
and planned al fresco escapades
in the ripening wheat

come the sun



Of the posh girl
dancing naked
save a transparent plastic mac
in the deluge
drumming the upturned boats
as I drowned

drowned 

in 

her 

exclusive 

proximity

Before realisation that
it was the breaking of our 'summer'

30 years have leached out all
but the salty memory of those monsoon kisses
that creeps up my spine

At the sound of piss on zinc.

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