CASANOVA’S BEREFT ETIQUETTE

wedding

You wished for the whitest of weddings, unspoiled maid of honour, fine lingerie

said you needed the chicest of soirees, yet he gifted you just a death’s door bouquet

you lost a twin yet unveiled translucent coincidence, on the merry-go-round at a fair

spoke in riddles only blind men could fathom, for the sightless there is naught to compare

you ignited the flames of indifference, sat down in the library reading tales of ‘past sell-buy date’ lust

came home to a bed full of heartache, managed to turn love’s sweetest passion to a powdery dust

you bought the grandiose bed, he the stained mattress, you paid for red roses, he the chipped vase

the wasted preachers shamefaced variations, obscured since he counted up all his lucky stars

in collection bowls the clergy have faith in, nursing mothers and lovers bow their heads, look away

if time could refold all of its wrappings, then for you it would repackage yesterday

you dressed as his article of ostentation, paraphernalia fitting Casanova’s bereft etiquette

a dare you forever regretted accepting, the very instant you hand shook on the bet

time came when the path reached a crossroad, you no longer pleaded for more honesty

blocking your way, a decrepit old witch’s fat black cat, that would define your new destiny

are the victorious the naked or the blessed ones, or the Legions who rampaged Carthage?

thieving artefacts, coinage and conscripts, enslaved girls for the auctioneer’s stage

glorifying the past is to humiliate the present, a thing you knew well yet ignored

put trust in the fact you were certain, a life locked away was better than a new one explored

when they told her she would be sectioned, to where the psychotic’s squander all once held dear

that was the worst bad day in the life of, the cloistered girl who had thrived on vacant fear

(regarding someone I once knew)

CHILD OF MANY FATHERS

migrant_mother_by_dczanik-d6p14d4

a child of many fathers

in a land of foreign tongue

where no one befriends the stranger

be they babe in arms or old or young

 

where mongrel breed begets pedigree

though high and mighty pedigree will never admit

to its back-burner, ambiguous forbears

that its fabled blue blood is counterfeit

 

here where the abundant thoroughbreds

bathe in a bath tub of jenny milk

the lone traveller scours under storm clouds shower

wears hand-me-downs, never silk

 

a newcomer seeking a little good fortune

a fresh beginning; a crowning glory in its wake?

yet here and now benevolence forgotten

a spit of hate, no goodwill handshake

 

the latecomer, the au courant amalgam

is thus, was and always will be

the outsider at envy’s frosted window pane watching

the negligent native assert false purity

 

a child of many fathers

in a land of foreign tongue

where no one befriends the stranger

be they babe in arms or old or young

 

 

ATTENTION SHE NEVER NEED COAX

_Smoking_girl_in_retro_style_054965_

Milk chocolate brown eyes with dark chocolate potential

café au lait outer casing, tresses of cascading jet hair

black chiffon evening gown the ‘must have’ essential

striking a genteel pose, cross-legged in an Art Deco club chair

 

through a slender ivory cigarette holder

a Luxury Sobranie she elegantly smokes

red-blooded men stare open mouthed and just smoulder

for their attention she never need coax

 

a dream muse for the salivating Orientalist

whose paintbrush affords femme ‘not so’ fatale no blush

he would prefer it if in a harem she enlist

so he might capture her in white slavery’s first flush

 

pretty dreams come easy in the Tropic of Cancer

like the climate, flight of imagination has extremes

for the Ottoman Sultan she’d be belly dancer

in his sickly world bursting at its explicit seams

 

erotica for the erotically demented

a framed canvas that will hang in The Louvre

of beguiling zingara then and now tormented

signed by a ‘would be’ Gerome who cannot be excused

 

primeval instinct puts her on high guard

the drooling artist’s stare is lacking in grace

she decides this thing she should not disregard

alights from her seat, blows tobacco’s misty fumes in his face

THE ENGLISHMAN ABROAD

bri_india02_4074

Twixt birthing night and withering day

a fire blue fleeting fugitive sundown

free spirit’s very own circadian pageant

a fanciful canvass upon heavenly cupola

showcasing those everlasting sparkling stars

they rub eyes, yawn, awaken, flaunt their stuff

all this, compliments of the divine continuum

a wonder lost upon the Englishman abroad

boiling alive in nature’s own oppressive sauna

sweet dream deprivation, superannuated mattress

mosquito net inconvenience, creature hullabaloo

come night-time’s absolute all that lives feeds

on prey of choice or procreates vociferously

save those who wail the death throw ballad

in the tropics, all that can stir, stirs, a given

first light affords small comfort, another day

of linen shirts and sweaty armpits, brow wiping

‘Give me a bare-breasted native girl to towel me down

another to fan me, better still a buxom serving wench

and a yard of porter back in a reeking Soho ale house

give me back the pissing rain of Olde England fair

take me away from this hellhole, magic me home’

such were the days of Empire mercantilism

balance ‘tween beauty and banknote adrift

preferring London’s open sewers, mother’s ruin

not the virgin abundance within the new lands

yet, more guineas to earn, deepest pockets to fill

he, his kind all castaway mongrel white knights

thieving gold and spices the eight black pawns

neglect, gifting them a Union flag to bow to, an

English speaking, pale skinned latest edition Christ

to put on a pedestal, pay homage to and hold dear

 

 

LULLABIES FOR THE CONDEMNED & OTHER POINTLESS ACTIVITIES

uprising

Naked belligerence and certifiable leadership consign to worthless oblivion the self-evident

that a decoy bird of prey deters not the wily gull’s quest for food, more food, short-lived rest

that the best of the worst regenerated predators never opt for keepsake pushover camouflage

that lullabies for the condemned and other pointless activities make the powerless strung out

that proposed paradise has no substance, just buy and sell subterfuge and submerged mind trickery

that there is precious little hope for the scavengers, those one’s with no coin to flick skywards

long since silenced, no voice to call ‘heads or tails’ in their ‘baby’s got no shoes’ tenanted dominion

 

All the time they feared for their lives the graphic threat ‘worse times ahead’ was sufficient

then came the day when no longer the rank and file cared about their own ruination, mortality

now together as one, comrades in arms, marching to the resonant drum beat of pitiless revenge

yet severed heads on spikes outside the city wall terrorize best when leavening flesh adorns skull

beware the revolutions burning desire of Promised Land, so soon a baffled ‘how so’ pipedream finale

beware the unaltered here and now, beware also the incitement of helter-skelter raw humanity

forget not the embryonic cause, stay true to ‘born with’ values, then ‘comme il faut’ victory will be

 

 

MY SUICIDE NOTE

Stuttgarter Platz

I’ve been an utter rotter and a scoundrel

both an accomplished idiot and a fool

to choose the pleasures of fresh flesh

and to be so untrue to you

 

Of course it was always in my nature

to treat you, my true lover thus

for no matter how much I craved for you

on the back burner I put ‘us’

 

The whores of Stuttgarter Platz

the young fillies of the Pigalle

be it in Berlin or in Gay Paree

I fed my addiction for any girl

who would dance the dance of lust for me

and fulfil my rakish need

feed me those sublime carnal pleasures

to assuage my ceaseless greed

 

I gambled away our fortune

in the casinos of Monte Carlo and Deauville

and I remain so painfully aware that

my cruelty left you emotionally ill

 

So now I feel the time is right

to fall upon my own sword

do tell the kids I loved them

and never forget you were adored

 

This ‘silly’ verse is one from my book, ‘Gentlemen Prefer a Pulse: Poetry with a Hint of Lunacy’ published September 2015: available by simply typing in Mike Steeden in Amazon anywhere whatever your country, or for the UK at; 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gentlemen-Prefer-Pulse-Poetry-Lunacy/dp/1517436478/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1461052568&sr=8-1&keywords=mike+steeden

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gentlemen-Prefer-Pulse-Poetry-Lunacy-ebook/dp/B015LBVPAG/ref=sr_1_1_twi_kin_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1461052568&sr=8-1&keywords=mike+steeden

 

APHRODISIACAL ART FORM

train

Take-away debatable coffee from a conglomerate

thinking idly of a people’s revolution one day soon

the contradiction lost on him, the butterfly thinker

passes a busking accordionist, wants to be in Paris

notes streetwise pigeons seem to have lost the art of flying

meandering this way and that in a ‘no daffodil’s yet’ spring

would one day evolution afford them the Dodo’s sad fate?

mist of fine drizzle robs his spectacles of causational purpose

 

would be hunter gatherer arrives home, she hears him not

busy, engrossed, watering can in one hand, fine spray the other

in the bay window she is nourishing the potted house plants

just a tee-shirt and a bare bum back view, aphrodisiacal art form

he lingers in her private moment much, much longer than needs be

taking in the view, mind drifting toward a different kind of uprising

shelves that idea, regardless, she says, “Hurry up or we’ll be late”

 

railway train tickets weighed and paid, she joins him on board

he takes the window seat; she has her nose in an Agatha

he remembers the day she drunk him under the table

no old flame on fire happenstance, wilting forget-me-not’s

permanent scars affirm history, time bombs and too many cigarettes

the train pulls to a halt; all is well, they transfer to breakneck Eurostar

Gare du Nord next stop, caffeine hit put on hold for now, all is well

 

THE WAITRESS WHO WEARS ONLY SHOES – A ribald tale of espionage

shoes 2

1942 in Casablanca

In a sleaze bar just down from Ricks

Backlit on the stage are the dancers

For dollars the girls perform tricks

 

The Vichy and the Nazi’s, all gather

The Vichy, the Nazi’s at play

Yet they’re unaware someone’s listening

To every word that they say

 

Lily who serves food and cocktails

Doesn’t just hand out the booze

Lily’s the Allies own ‘sleeper’

She’s the waitress who wears only shoes

 

Lily plays on the bravado

Of loose tongues as drink takes its toll

She listens without really listening

Quite the most beautiful mole

 

I come to this place from the desert

To hear if she’s got any news

Of the German’s intentions

Of just where their navy might cruise

 

Through smoke rings and the sound of piano

She leans over and whispers to me

Evocative tales of their folly

In just shoes so erotic is she

 

After I say she should leave now

That the risk here is not worth the cost

Yet Lily just smiles and says, “No Sir

I’ll not leave till this war’s won or lost”

 

 

THE SHOP THAT SELLS KISSES

BLOW KISS

I went into the shop that sells kisses

Asked the girl behind the counter if she

Could recommend from her vast range of stocked caresses

A kiss that was suited to me

 

“Well I’ve got the Kiss of Death here on Special Offer

Yet I don’t think you want that do you?

And it’s ‘Buy One, Get One Free’ on the Judas Kiss

Yet they do not befit a ‘hello’ more so an ‘adieu’

 

Goodbye kisses come in all shapes and sizes

And are appropriate when heading for pastures new

Or perhaps when a true love is over

Or maybe dropping a child off at a new school

 

Now the hand kiss is so very versatile

You can use them almost each and every way

They indicate politeness, courtesy and respect

When a gentleman greets a lady who just may

 

Favour him with more than just blushes

Chancing his luck, although there’s no guarantee

Yet I suggest you’ll not be kissing the Pope’s ring

When bowed down before him on just one knee

 

Kisses on the lips are our best-sellers

They’re not cheap mind, they come at some cost

The range starts with merely a Swift Peck

Up to The Interlaced Tongue New Lover ‘Defrost’

 

Having taken some time out for a good think

I went on quite the wildest spending spree

So much did I pay out that upon leaving

The girl blew me an air kiss, said, “That’s free”

PERPETUAL INNOCENCE

dumb

She examines her defenceless giant attentively as he bathes

he, the one who is a portrayal of rare full-fledged innocence

wonders if the macrocosm inside his head replicates the one outside of hers

hopes against hope that locked within exists a rainbow’s multi-coloured arc, or

is all this lost upon the extraordinary self, empty of speech, hearing and sight

unaware that gesture is the only language he bestows

touch and smell his native inside-out lone connection

 

She communicates best she can

upon his awakening she is always there

her ‘hello of sorts’ a lover’s tangled tongue kiss

no passion though, they are not lovers

more that sharing of her unique taste

serves to let him perceive her, recognize her

always has him gift a beaming smile her way

she wears the self-same perfume each new day also

helps him identify her proximity

 

Aids him out of the bath

warm towels, warm heart care

time for drying and dressing

the palaver of dressing irks him, induces a frown

regardless he is immune to nakedness

within his ambushed consciousness

his curious dominion, not for him

the embarrassment of the earthly collective

 

The sun shone the day before

albeit keeping a caring eye open

she chose to let him wander the lawn uncovered

from nowhere a summer storm brewed, small hailstones

she watched as he held out his palms, threw his head back

greeted the spheres of water ice, an air of amazement, no suffering

 

The eternal ‘what next’ frustrates her day; muddles her mood

she undresses, calculates he may not know human beings come in two packages

her hands upon his chest, fingers spread wide, sensation of touch inviting

invitation accepted, he mirrors her actions, stroke for stroke

his look curious, questioning, captivated

no folly in innocent exploration

 

A telephone outside of his realm rings

might be important, she pulls away

notices he sheds a single loaded tear

from which continent of emotion it heralds

likely she will never unearth