Sticky fingers - Dirty weekends

At first
I would miss the sound
of rubber tyres and
squeeky wheels on tarmac
and your demands
crying wide mouthed
wanting everything
too loud
and too much
and I would cry.

Then
when the guilt was gone
I wrapped my sins in your silk edged blanket
rocked them in your craddle
till they screamed
wept and left for the party;
skirt high,
greased thigh,
lipstick,
shoes
and the taste of freedom like a sugar coated tear
barely able to touch my brazen lips

I begged that you would not return
but you are here
like a burden of love
on my selfish shoulder
that is asking to be honoured
and though I wild enough;
like a goat
who once again has not been fed,
I turn to you my child
and ask that you forgive me
for I am a brazen friday night lover
and the sordid excuse for
your mother

The Plughole

I scratch the surface
of the ceramic cooker
scrubbing harder
harder
harder
till my finger tips
bleed then shine the tepid taps
with a mixture of vinegar
and wine.

For me,
the ironing pile
gets high
especially at
night
when I can fight you
through the layers and layers
of Islamic cloth
I no longer wear

And when morning comes
there is no wood
to burn in the fire
so I hack
and hack
until I can make myslef warm

but the one place I fall,
Is cleaning the pubic hairs
out of the plughole
which go
on and on
and seem to grow longer
with every tug
and pull.