Im Just doing my scrapbook thing on here, as it is a BLOG.
I seem to get more out If I type live on the site, rather than on my word doc
I dont know why this is.
strange thoughts and ideas seem to surface.
I shall be building some poems in May.
here follows a few all smelted together into a narrative of sorts.


Garden, Saturday Afternoon.

I like to play dot to dot
on your freckled back
you chat while I do that
face down in women’s magazines
I like to read them too
-when you are out.
I like the confusion
blank looks
over your pretty head
if  I talk of mechanics and silly man things
in garden shed experiments on lawn mower engines
“what the hell do you do in there, crazy man!”
I start to explain about glue guns and spot welders, brass brazes.

She glazes.

“ I have adjusted the throw of the crank shaft”

and likewise I’m smilingly lost
In girl fascination of soap opera

Saturday Evening

I saw a robot woman on a TV ad
they made her perfect.
she had no appeal.
If she was capable of emotion
what would she feel,
if I reject.
If they build her a partner
will  they fall down in unison
and perfect synchronicity
dream of the emerald city?

tin lady men
all perfect designs.
no faulty circuits.

no quite perfect yet then-
we need imperfections.
don’t they get it?

so as they try to design them out
make designer Jemima’s
what will become of lovers games
if nothing to tease so tame about?

I continue dot to dot on your freckles
and find the alphabet
I trace initials
write rude words
you laugh at my spelling
and we settle down
to see some serious television.
Lovely little Lemmings.

forgot to put the bins out.
you moan that I always do that

I’m a fiesty sentence stringer too
but
I’ll not turn the saint to sinner in her just yet
trundle the wheelie bin out front, subservient
minus 3 tonight
I think about that TV robot for one last time
dragging out the trash all confused about feeling cold
I think about a conversation with it
about pre programmed lovers talk
and wonder if this new animal could learn my tastes
and hold me like her.

Saturday Night, midnight sex in the garden shed.

I’m interrupted by a shout from open velux
steam is pouring out the bathroom window
she says there runs a Radox bath
Bless! shes dayglow
in black silk negligee!
Knows my tastes
forgiven
my garden shed games of mechanics

breathing on the neap of her back
I create beads on her in there sometimes
amongst the bolts and oily palms of me
she likes that.
On bonnet black, on cloth sack
my strewn tit tat
my overhall mis haps
she loves a bit of that.

Something we both enjoy

riddled with perfect imperfections.
One thing bigger than other, etceteras, etceteras
my crankshaft wobbles a bit these days
I swallow a blue pill.
the body is wonderful.
Science desgined out a guilty imperfection
thank god for science
Seems a contradiction.
Show me your member ship to the human race.

Sunday morning.

No robots just yet.
Just you and breakfast in bed, my turn
The world is not ready
to replace flesh with silicon skin
the soul may sink in
if we instil it
but something simple will be missing
unless they build automatic imperfection of course.
too much salt
Instinct tells me, it will jam the works.

Monday

I have to leave before you
I trip over a bra strap
bizarrely attached to a table leg
somehow
I recall I get annoyed
at all your mess
once again dismiss the thought
pass the test of accepting imperfection.