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In Cars

In cars, I'm him.
I make the shapes he makes –
one-handing the steering wheel
as if grasping some mane,
I cup the gear stick bulb
like it's a brandy bowl
and coast to junctions
clutch disengaged
scared as sharks to stop,
though on open road
I’ll box in better cars than mine,
a sudden stickler for the limit
I slap down and squeeze your knee
celebrating damming flow,

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graham cliffordwww.grahamclifford.co.ukpoetrycontemporary poetrygenderhistorySwindon



One time it was gourds

that surfaced like Montgolfier submarines

in her pea and spud patch.


Bright lumps and dumplings,

they were too-much as fondant, or nougat.

Too good to be true.


Hollow to knock on, as if containing corridors,

when they toughened

into chilly cocks and succulent truncheons

she cupped them in turn and twisted

each from...

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The (very) end

Thanks. I've got another poem from my collection, Welcome back to the Country, published by Seren.

This is about relationships, UFOs and comeuppance!



The (very) end


Now, if a fabulous UFO

broad as a postcode

dropped from the clouds and hovered

so tower block and office block aerials

tickled the anti-clockwise rotation of its gun-metal underside,


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