Little Fishcake Belly 2

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They walked along in silence. They had not travelled far when the sky opened. He took her hand and led her over a low wall and down an embankment to the canal, where they took shelter under an iron railway bridge.

Laughing and catching her breath, she scraped the wet hair from her face. “I’m soaked through!”

He only stared at her. From the far end of the leaden sky, an orange glow was skipping off the canal into her glistening face. She stopped straightening her damp dress. “I must look a right state.”

“You look wonderful,” he said, marvelling at her golden face, a brightly shimmering curtain of rain behind her.

She guessed he was just being nice to make up for his failure in the railway yard. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said.

“Why would you be?” he replied uncertainly.

“I’m not,” she said, checking her shoes. “It’s not me that couldn’t get it up.”

Again he tried to read her face, but could make no sense of her. The golden light faded. “I don’t get this. Why are you having a go at me?”

“I’m not,” she blurted. What was wrong with him?

“Then why are you trying to make me feel bad for not hurting you in the yard back there?”

“What do you mean?” They were becoming shadows in the half light.

“I mean that weird stuff about hurting you and don’t stop even if you beg me.” He pointed in the direction of the railway yard.

“I thought it was what men wanted to hear,” she explained. “Most men like it.”

“Most men?!” His voice was hot and bitter. “How many men have you had?!”

“That’s none of your business!” she echoed loudly.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” He stepped back from her. Then he took another step and found he could not stop. He shook his head apologetically as he disappeared into the rain.

Time To Go To Sleep

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There is nothing more to keep you
Wide awake and watchful now
Take you in my arms and sweep you
Up to bed and kiss your brow

Snow is falling on a mountain
Whales are swimming in the deep
Stars are flowing from a fountain
It is time to go to sleep

The moon sits on a chimney pot
Clouds are resting with the sheep
And you are in your little cot
For it is time to go to sleep

Little Fishcake Belly 1

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She legged it over the gate into the railway yard and he followed her. Under a leaden sky they ran. She didn’t look back as she skipped between wagons, running her hands along their chassis, through grease and grime. As he caught up with her and grabbed at her waist, she turned and pushed her hand into his face. She smushed the smut into his cheeks and forced his mouth on hers, a tang of vinegar on her lips, her tongue still salty.

“Not here,” she gasped. Her eyes darted furtively around as her blackened hands snatched at his shirt collar. She led him into the coal black shadow in the lee of the old loco shed, leaving a trail of shirt buttons. He gripped her tight. Coal, iron, oil, skin. Bit into her shoulder. Drew her hair into one length and wound it into his fist. Snapped her head back, their eyes locked, her panting mouth breathing close into his.

He unfastened the button at the nape of her neck, pulled the dress from her left shoulder, then her right, and made her bare to the waist.

She flung her arms around his neck and hoisted herself onto the stack of railway sleepers behind her, where he laid her down, white skin on black wood, and flung her skirt and petticoat up. With her legs slung over his shoulders, her little fishcake belly trembled to each shunt he gave.

“I’ll not be yours,” she said, “unless you take me.”

Their eyes hard upon each other, he pushed all the more. She raised herself up, curled a hand around the back of his neck and drew his mouth to hers. He made to kiss her, but she bit his lip and pulled at it. He could taste his blood.

“Bang me harder. Deeper!  Stretch me and make it hurt!” she said. “When I beg you to stop, keep going. If I cry, push harder. Force yourself into me.”

He studied the intensity in her eyes. Looking for a way to keep going, but he was losing it. Was she fantasising or expecting this? He stopped, still gripped between her legs.

She propped herself up on her elbows. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t right,” he muttered. He withdrew himself. Let her legs down. Fastened whatever buttons he still had.

“What have I done now?” She sounded hurt and confused.

“Is that what you really want?” He tucked his coal smeared shirt into his waist. “I can’t do that.”

“You’re not man enough?” There was no taunt in her words, and it threw him a little. He studied her face as she sat up bare chested, her black fingers wiping at her damp inner thighs, leaving black smutty streaks.

He felt a fat raindrop on the back of his neck and turned his attention to the sky. “We ought to get going,” he said. “There’s the smell of a storm in the air.”

The Ghosts Of Victory

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We walk together
Thru scenes of our shared past
That I have no understanding of
Or power to change
The cratered kitchen
The entrenched bedroom
The unrecognisable twisted limbs
What could I have done?
“You could have done nothing
You think you hold the power to change me?
You hold my hand
Nothing more”
She wears a red glove
“So you might stop crying now”

The Foxtrot

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If they could see me now
White tie and tails
Dancing on a silver moonbeam
They’d know why I hung them out to dry
They’d all cry out
“Why, he sure showed us!
Cardboard cutouts at a cabaret
Polishing our shoes for nothing”
Here comes the spotlight!
Can you hear the violence?
They’re playing our song
And they can all go do the foxtrot