There's an odd familiarity in
recognizing one's own shadow,
not that pundits, patriarchs
and protagonists select one photon
of evidence over the other. A woman
in a burka, no matter its colour, usually
doesn't consider herself exploited,
dominated or persecuted though she may
be hotter than hell.

Have you ever heard the night desert
in the silence of its dunes, the figs and
the pomegranates whispering like old friends?

My name is Arabella
And I’m really such a girly
I like to wear nice dresses
And my hair is blonde and curly

With underwear by Reger
And Prada on my feet
Made up to perfection
I give all the men a treat

My perfect breasts the envy
Of the women that I see
They look me up and down
And how, they wish that they were me

I’m very nearly faultless
And quite soon with any luck
I’ll have the money saved
So I can have the nip and tuck

ccBuk pulls himself out of retirement,
I resurrect him for this poem
merely triumphantly
he lives here
occasionally;
there is a bluebird officiating
collecting
pages of recollections
offering truth in unmeasured doses,
pulling puppet strings
and nine wild horses

she was no school marm, or perhaps she is,
hiking her skirt up past her ankles,
suffragette ghosts
walking in the slut walk on Wall Street,
naked from the waist up, inside
your head

His grey eyes barely visible
in between green blades of grass

though crouched he stood
in readihood

his hunting skills first class.

~

The breeze was in his favor
plus, he was hidden in tall reed

an awkward stance
will eat circumstance

so his best is what he'll need

~

A polished element of surprise
and rehearsed moves he knows so well

he's honed each skill
with intent to kill

quietly longing for death's smell

~