Etna

Winter unwraps a lolly and begins to suck.

We are curled by an icy tongue into a nub.

The long range telephoto lens extends the bronzing oil

But there’s not one pair of perky royal tits to rub.

In the village under Etna October clouds come in.

The volcano shivers in seismic sympathy.

Apartments crouch to rubble to outstay its love.

Next day the sun comes out.

Everybody else is fled or dead. Lava drools

Down Etna’s cheeks, red then grey then black.

My wife I hadn’t noticed went. Was it before or after

All this hot volcanic juice was spent.

The toilet walls shout loudly to themselves

Punctuate me  Go on  Do

I care  I care  I cry  I seethe  I you

The toilet is the last thing standing in this town.

Volcanoes have big bubbling heartache too.

Prayer II

Even if I were there, Homer, praying

on raw knees to cow faced Hera or the bitch

Aphrodite, I’d still be praying just for sleep

to seep down from its hustling chariot,

sleep which is grey and dark grey

and suddenly alive, and still I wouldn’t understand,

not even if I were back on this pavement

where it’s wet on some days and sometimes it shines,

why you wouldn’t want it, up late smoking and

shaking and scared of sleep because

it brings the next day closer, like she was

and I was drowsing, glorious lover that I am

and the warmth of her tears on my fingers

was calming.