Halt! Do not attempt to open
The box that lies within,
These closet doors are tightly shut
To shield your eyes from sin.

Alas, you shun this warning
And the doors apart you prise,
With thrill you stand there motionless,
Transfixed with eager eyes.

Upon the topmost dusty shelf
Lies hid the jewel so sought,
A humble, string-tied cardboard box,
Indeed, who would have thought?

With delicate poise you reach up high
Whilst teetering from a chair,
And lower the box from its hiding place
With respect and utmost care.

A panicked scan of your parents' room
Ensures the coast is clear,
Allowing you to free the knot
That harbours all your fear.

With trembling hands and a nervous grin
Your heart skips a beat or two,
As you expose the contents of the box,
Of which rumours you'd hoped were true.

Peeling back the concealing layer
Of moth-chewed shirts and jeans,
You beam and proudly hold aloft
A host of girly magazines.

Why gosh, I must be dreaming, for how else could this be true?
To stand here in a tidy flat of slobbish housemates two:

The kitchen sink is clean and bare, not heaped with pots and pans,
The garbage bins are fit for use, not brimming full with cans.

Where once the stovetop dripped with filth, now gleams and sparkles bright,
Those scraps of food which lined the floor, swept up and out of sight.

The bathroom towels hang neat and dry, not left in soggy piles,
The shower walls shine pearly white, the grime scrubbed from the tiles.

Cheap DVDs once strewn about, now smartly stacked away,
Worn undergarments draped on chairs, no longer on display.

My eyes beam wide in wonderment to see such hygiene met,
At last a home of cleanliness; not one unsightly threat.

A feat indeed for slobs as these, who'd never helped before,
The 'duo of disorder' vowed to not attempt a chore.

Though soon enough my frown returns with thoughts to make me weep:
In bed I find myself supine, just woken from a sleep.

The daydream gone, such fantasy, I rise with much disdain,
And sigh aloud to see the flat a pigsty once again.

There once was a Scotsman named Warren
Who wore a kilt and a sporran
It was shocking, they said
When he stood on his head
And the women all saw something foreign

Boil all the ocean’s waters and
bring me the crystals you have
coaxed from the reluctant brine.
Offer them up to me as though
they were born from all the tears
you’ve shed since I left home.

It still wouldn’t be enough to
keep me from my wanderlust,
my stubborn need to taste all the
savory morsels this life can offer.
Next to that worldly richness,
what cry should slow my flight,
what home could hold me captive?
The fault is not your own, my love.

One day I’ll visit some far shore
and as the ocean’s balmy breeze
salts my cheeks in silent tribute
to the answering tears that dared
to leak from my traitorous eyes,
I’ll think of you.

I am every velvet mist
That lingers past the silken dawn
To brush your face with gentle kiss
And urge you not to hurry on
So swift to meet the coming day.

So too I am the secret voice
That murmurs blessings in the wind
As the trembling leaves rejoice
To know that one day in the end
They too will learn to fly away

By honeyed breeze or frosty gale
To some as yet unknown new ground
And in their flight at last prevail
In understanding why we’re bound
To love the earth, but cannot stay.

I woke to the noise of the garbage truck,
As it screeched tight its compactor arm,
And realised with a panicked glance,
That I'd forgotten to set my alarm.

With fumbling haste I wrestled with clothes,
Tripped over and banged my head,
Fetched up a piece of cold blackened toast,
And out the door I fled.

I leapt in the car and roared off down the road,
In a blazing streak of fire,
When with a bang and a jolt, my ride slowed to a halt,
And I learnt that I'd blown out a tyre.

Ditching the wheels I ran through the park,
So enraged I felt I might burst,
Being careful to avoid large puddles of mud,
Yet I slipped and fell in face-first.

Seething now with intensified fury,
Bruised, begrimed and berserk,
I calmed myself, taking solace in the knowledge,
That I had at last arrived at work.

The boss eyed me oddly from across the floor,
And approached with an unsettling cough,
He looked me up and down, his face formed a frown,
And said, "Isn't this your day off?"

red haired ladies, far and near
you call to me, without trying
if you should see me, have no fear
it’s only your flesh I’m eyeing

women have such smooth, soft skin
blondes, brunettes and carrot tops
reds are the ones that get under my skin
they’re the ones with those special spots

I’d love to count your pokey dots
that are sprinkled ‘cross your nose
and continue all the way on down
to those that’s on your toes

from where I stand there’s quite a few
and easy to see, right there in view
now the question that I have for you
is, can I count the hidden ones too?

take off your clothes, lay back, relax
I’ll search them out, even in cracks
between your toes, I won’t be distracted
it’s only those dots to which I’m attracted

there must be thousands hiding there
and more of which you’re unaware
including under that patch of hair
I will behave down there, I swear

those little, tannish, pinkish speckles
that everyone just calls freckles
when I’m done - and kept careful track
I’ll flip you over and count your back

Deep within a cavern
An ode to ever sing
Embrace and gently fathom
The Whisper of the Spring

Flowing ever and unwinding
Gently seize its weight in gold
While ancients tell the story
Of the magic it beholds

Cup your hands upon its sweetness
Dance its taste upon your tongue
Pleasures long forgotten
Of life and love and home

Breathe the mist it gathers
Collect worry from your brow
Tap hidden inspiration
Unlock all of what you know

Refresh your lost demeanor
Sense the glide upon your skin
Enhance the youth once buried
Render beauty from within

Rouse each foggy remnant
Diminish clouds upon the sky
Captivate the power
Witness with your eyes

Sparkling on the half-moon
As if fingers on a harp
Decant its cordial melody
To flow inside your heart

A treasure lost and cherished
Floating high on angel wings
Secrets lost within you
Are the Whisper of the Spring

Bare ground, hemmed in by walls of barbed wire,
bleakness broken only by sprawling, weed-like barracks.
Bunks overflowing with remnants of humanity,
drug together by hate and a yellow star.
Will the madness that has crept over the world never cease?

Children that used to cry, now silent,
dry eyes, waiting for the known.
Hope, a forgotten word,
lost a little, lash by lash.
The callous guards puff on their cigarettes,
taking pleasure from the pain.

Men stare out, with gazes more gaunt than their bodies,
staring through the iron gate branded
Arbeit Macht Frei.
Freedom, found only in the gray, smoky ashes,
rising steadily from the tall chimneys.

True it seems, my love, that we have ventured every space;
Every nook of every room has known our passionate embrace:
From brisk boudoir gymnastics to a firm bonk in the shower,
To shagging madly upon the stairs, stopping only every hour.

A rogering in the sitting room, whilst watching the nightly news,
Or a quickie behind the laundry door before our midday snooze.
Not even are the kids' rooms spared when out they head to play,
As soon as they're gone we're up in their beds, happily grinding away.

From friendly hallway humpings to wrestling on the basement floor,
Those pleasurable porks in the pantry, so often it seems like a chore.
Randy romps on the patio, or in closets it's been said,
When rough and tumble is what we seek, we'll use the garden shed.

Indeed it seems that every spot has endured our fiery lust,
Though fret not, my love, as it happens, there is one last place to thrust:
Upon the kitchen table there, is our final sacred site,
To share our love and pasta-bake throughout this raunchy night.