A Finely Placed Freckle

A finely placed freckle
On a beautiful young woman
Can send a warm shiver
Through my middle and mind.

Imperfections interrupting the smooth
Run of skin. The pinpoint precision at
The top of her thigh. The scattering
Madness of jazz on her nose in the sun.

One lying,
Along the jaw-line, fingered when stressed,
One secret,
Concealed, hidden between breasts.

To place a kiss with the warm breath
Of a rose at the apex of her arm
Would leave a tingle, a tremor,
A fervour on my lips.



How Great It Was To Make Love To Aretha Franklin Circa 1970

Travelling to meet at some motel along
Route 66, or Highway 51,
Passing children swinging tennis rackets
Hitting stones across wastelands,
A snapped string every other strike.

Arriving at the deepest hour,
Smelling the cedar-wood foundations,
As some black cat pours itself
From a fence to a path.

Slipping in, like a delicate, dreamy fish,
Amberlamps glowing and leopard-skin prints,
A baroque clock on the wall melts
Into the fuchsia patterned paper
And the throat of the wind chokes outside.

Seeing her gnaw on the wing of a chicken in bed,
Her nightdress, corners her curves, a silken red.

Moving hands across her sand-coffee skin,
Kissing her rose of a smile and unfolding,
Until we build to
That moment -
The only purest present.
That moment -
Of absolute orgasm…

Collapsing, with the birds outside,
Whistling, duped into daylight.



Pink Elephants On Parade

I'm writhing after spending days rolling
In and out of my undressed dreams
With a tight moth for company
And a hole, fingered through the jeans.

If it's to be this, then water will run
Brown and bottles will pile and break.
I made sure she knew and rolled coins
Her way. 'Soma,' she said, like in that book.

'Got any?' Any? A white phase just now.
No more pretty rhymes or perfect sins,
Just molecules fizzing, causing alarm.
Never the zest; apathetic homeland chimes

In unison and the dead come in boxes
Armed with their plastic artillery.
She knew the truth, she squeezed
It out of me like fat from a dead artery.

Credit lost, we never recovered
From that period, that full stop
Of hard and easy. We reached for the shelf
And things would fall, things would drop.

Forever now, forever now, forever,
She turns, circles, spins on her heel,
Arms - stretched in hope; sallow, fragile,
As my hands clam. Below her, I kneel.

(c) John Togher 2005



From a collection called 'The Meaninglessness Of Life And The Important Of Magic In The Void'