Don’t try to pick up old bad habits again, it’s all too easy to get burned- and your butt kicked.

Vapour Trail.

She stood aloof, with a Kool, looking hot,
Hand lightly holding that dangling invitation,
My pledge to stop my vice instantaneously forgot
So up I stepped, Ronson raised in anticipation...

I lit up her smoke, hand slightly shaking
Certain I'd struck up a true love match,
She turned away, left me and my heart breaking;
So it's back to solo vaping and the nicotine patch.

'Don't hold your breath, Champ.'

©Obbverse

It can be pure hell being a little Miss Goody Two-shoes; especially if it’s not a good fit.

Stuck In A Box.

Mother believed when my maker calls me to Glory
She expected me to transit straight past Purgatory,
Surely Saint Peter will welcome me as a fellow saint
With my unblemished record, no cause for complaint?

From the very moment I said my first word
Mother said 'the ideal girl is seen but not heard,'
Dumb obedience to Mother, as per Godly tradition
And my Catholic mom was a mother with a mission.

Just once I brought up the issue of whence I came,
'Where's Dad, what's his name, do we look the same?'
From the back of the bible she withdrew an old photograph,
She spat 'see, Child- some bastard's father and my lesser half.'

One day, reflecting in the mirror in the bathroom
I discovered a secret garden now beginning to bloom,
From that forgotten quarter sprung a scrubby triangle-
Add to which the itchy hair-raising fact of pits in a tangle.

So then mother lectured me on right and wrong,
The only wine, on communion, one Him, Hymn song,
Making plain to me I had a  face only a mother might like,
'Be as a nun- popularity with boys means being the town bike.'

She instilled the virtues of virtue as I sprang up,
Thanked God when He 'blessed' me with an A cup,
I'd longed to look swell in a tight come-hither gown,
My one foray in going strapless led to a dressing down.

Together mother dear and the priest had a talk with me;
It seems boys, booze and blazing were the Unholy Trinity,
One Sunday I stood 'tween 'em, before the whole congregation,
On my breast a white bow, confirming my good God reputation.

She must have seen this as being a mothers  finest hour,
Pressing a Father's service to protect her innocent flower,
Yep, Mother and Father Riley had my best interests at heart,
Father said 'God forgives your sins,' mother said 'but don't start.'

Mother had me wear clothes designed to say
'Nothing to see here,' swaddled in swathes of grey,
Who or what lay deep beneath was anybody's guess?
Designed less to go out and impress than kneel and confess.

                              - - - - - - - - -         

I've said 'goodbye' to Mother, she's snapped nothing back,
I've hung up my black coat, slung my veiled hat on the rack,
I've taken his picture  from her good book before I put it away;
From forgotten book-mark to being framed and put on display.

Ma had finally told the tale of a girl, new to town, alone,
Of the interest in her predicament a gentleman had shown
When she rested her weary seat on the step of the Flatbush Inn,
Of how he'd dined and wined her, how easily she'd been taken in.

Now Ma's in Heaven (if all went as she planned)
And I'm finally free of her heavy restraining hand,
It's time to cast off my cardigans and her puritan views,
Now comes the time to take up offers she felt I had to refuse.

Cardigan unbuttoned, I re-evaluated Gods gift,
My small prospects required no underwired lift,
It was plainly time to jettison my drab underwear,
I went into the closet to find what I'd secreted there...

I slipped on my silk slightly padded bra, fiery red,
A thong to hide my modesty, if barely by a thread,
A tiny black dress to ensure my honour would be lost,
I've no desire to keep temptation at bay or legs crossed.

I recalled the words mother was wont to say
If she suspected her daughter may be led astray,
'Child, if you wish to go to heaven, to pluck the lyre,
Abstain, for drinking  and smoking serve to stoke the fire.' 

So I went in to the bar, the repository of all sin,
Scarce sat down when a man turned with a grin,
An absinthe in one hand, a Camel butt in the other,
Just the kind of devil who'd be condemned by Mother.

Oh, I recognised the danger, that I cannot deny,
Seen through the glass sparkly, that look in his eye,
Which one of us two poor souls appeared more shocked?
This angel wantonly falling or the good priest unfrocked?

A bit different from the usual offerings, but somewhere along the way the idiot muse took me somewhere unexpected. Ah well, it's the journey I suppose...

©Obbverse


How being a two-faced cocksure two-timing bastard can come back to bite you in the assets. Yep, there is a moral to this common story, it’s deep in the fine print.

Girl With A Problem.

There I sat, silently sipping in a darkened corner booth
Drinking in the boastings of the Big Man loudly holding court-
Into every bucket-full of bull-spit he’d toss in one grain of truth,
Oh, how I wished he would cut his overlong stories short.

Lewd tales of eyes meeting across a crowded bar-room,
Of another conquest in another cheap motel room tryst,
That heady mix of sweat, cheap wine and cheaper perfume-
All to tap another false first name on his ever-growing list.

How he craves to be his Locals centaur of attention,
Soaking in the adulation while his cronies toast to his excess,
His sweet wife innocently sat at home alone, she he doesn’t mention!
The times he’s deceived her would take him an eternity to confess!

He has those blue eyes and blond locks all the ladies like,
A bit of the bad boy’s readily displayed in his eyes, and pants,
His antenna’s always up for whenever any opportunity might strike,
He’s not the kind of nice guy to pass up a passing glance.

All the young dudes look up admiringly at their heroic stud
As the leopard-skin skirted cougar offers him her cocked eyebrow,
That lascivious look, that sultry smile guarantees that rush of blood,
They leave, his excitement as contained as skin-tight Levis allow…

…Dawn, and heavily hungover even as the day grows lighter
He clambers from the King-Size as his queen snoringly slumbers,
First, he sends a text to his wife truly saying he’s pulling an all-nighter,
Second, a tote up on his notebook proves he’s piling up the numbers.

Another night of cut and thrust has run its course
So he slides out the door, slips on his wedding band,
Returning to find his wife welcoming him home with a divorce
And a trusted friend there, offering her his guiding hand.

Didn’t you know she knew how little you thought of her?
Did you never stop and think, before swinging into action
That her fine up-standing friend and loyal family lawyer-come-lover
Found your affairs afforded us both relief and mutual satisfaction?

My free advice, should you be indiscrete
Is to keep your affairs quietly hushed up,
You’ll find it doesn’t come cheap when you cheat
If her lawyer didn’t disclose you signed a pre-nup.

©Obbverse

What a treat to see Boris up and about, all dewy-eyed over the latest addition to the Johnson legacy! Makes you love the lovable rogue even more, don’t it?

Daddy Issues.

‘Born to Bo and Carrie, a thick-thatched boy child,’
Styled much in the manner of his Poppa, carefree and wild,
Boris’s sixth, joining three daughters and two brothers
Selectively spread over three decades and three mothers.

After his brush with mortality can Bo be a changed man?
Rigidly stick to Carrie’s ‘Keep Johnson In-His-Pants Family Plan?
Carrie, just trust Bo to not carry on, Carrie, try to keep calm,
Bo’s put two partners behind him, so… third mom’s the charm?

 

©Obbverse.

Boris Johnson’s Diary: A lady’s man laid low.

Boris’s Bed-time Story.

Boris is in our prayers and in our thoughts,
I do  so hope Boris recovers from his nasty scare,
He’s feverishly chatting away, according to reports,
Swearing he’ll somehow survive National Health care.

Boris doesn’t like being in bed when he’s out of sorts,
Whether he’s feeling up or better is not the public’s affair,
Boy, Bojo has been a bit of a wag when it comes to bed sports
But now is the time to change his wayward ways- and underwear.

 

©Obbverse

From heights Olympian to the hum drum. I read a frazzled woman’s blog, I heard her frustration and imagined her next step. (Too much time on my scrubbed clean covid and germ-free hands, I imagine.)

Left In The Dust.

At school I’d daydream through the long boring classes,
Heroic tales of Hera and Hercules, so the lesson passes.

Exchanging today’s tedium’s for yesterday’s mythic stories,
Tall tales of ancient battles, of Achilles and Paris’s vain glories.

These days I’ve a Hades of a life, dragging the kids out of bed,
Getting ’em washed and fresh-faced and dressed and fed.

No honeyed milk nor sweet ambrosia bless this houses breakfast table,
Three growing boys, fling in food fights and I’m left an Augean stable.

Packed lunches, back packs and pack ’em in the Minivan;
Every morning this Moms labors become more Herculean.

Whatever happened to those long lost schoolgirl’s dreams?
Romantic fantasies of Helen of Troy, of a thousand triremes?

…Waiting at the red light, back to the past I absently wander
Till horns and a green light remind me my Odyssey’s a Honda.

The journey to school has all the usual boystrous push and shove,
A display of more pokes pinches and punches than brotherly love.

Spilling out the sliding door, off with nary a backward glance,
I’m rueing too many wasted days- and three nights of romance.

The Greek God I thought loved me eternally now no longer cares,
I naively married a Narcissus interested in his silly human affairs.

This ever-smiling mother, his secondary lover is going to disappear,
There is a Troy, a Carthage, Athens, Paris, Texas- anywhere but here.

 

Obbverse

Smiling glad-handing back-slapping Boris Johnson is going to have to dial back his endless flow of bonhomie, at least for a while. Finally, someone can tell him to give it a rest.

Wake Up Call.

It’s a dark day behind the black door at 10 Downing street,
Boris’s short tenure here isn’t going quite as he’d planned-
From victory over Brexit and savouring Labours defeat
To solitary confinement in the best address in the land.

He can’t simply shamble outdoors, he can’t meet or greet,
Stuck in bed, sat at home at the doctors express command,
His tousled look looks too real, with his pale face white as a sheet?
Nah, not even his (gl)amorous girlfriend wants to take his… hand.

 

©Obbverse

I know we should keep our social distancing and we’ll have to make our own entertainment but can I quickly share this, Hollywood style?

Two perspectives.

His view.

It’s all bad news,
Unconfined doom and gloom,
It’s all greys and blues,
Tucked up in my tiny room.

Her view.

Isn’t life just fine,
Isn’t life too rich?
Corona’s picked up Harv Weinstein;
Harvey, is not karma a bitch?

 

©Obbverse

Any time is a good time to go on holiday, to travel, explore new horizons, enjoy the pleasures of warm and close companionships. Up until very recently, anyway.

I was sick of works demands,
I wished to see some idle hands,
So I booked myself a sea cruise,
Well, what did I have to lose?

A life out on the ocean wave,
A licence to frolic and misbehave,
To stroll in Speedos with tanned chest,
Pull in the gut, leave the lasses impressed.

To what depravities I sunk,
Every night in a new bunk,
My lustful life was never finer-
I love life on an ocean liner.

But come one fine morning I awoke
Feeling like when I used to smoke,
But the ships Doc’s there for such ills-
Plus, I needed more lil’ blue pills.

The Doc’s voice took on a worried note
As he peered down my ticklish throat,
And as we approached American waters
I found I was confined to my quarters.

No more late-night fun and games,
No more early morning walk of shames,
Into my teeny tiny cabin I was shown
To spend a fortnight all on my own.

I’ve got a Gideons bible and a battered paperback,
Grand Cruise brochures litter the magazine rack,
Free Living and Disney channels are all very nice
But I wish they’d arrange Wi-Fi for my De-Vice.

I don’t mind being forcibly detained,
I realise a nasty virus must be contained,
The Cap’ns bound to put in protective measures
He doesn’t care a toss about my fleshly pleasures.

Here we’re moored, off San Francisco Bay,
And what to do to while the time away?
It’s ten more days till I’m back on deck,
Idle hands mean I’ll be a physical wreck.

 

©Obbverse

 

Welcome to a blended extended thermo-nuclearly unhappy family. Not to mention, family planning.

A Few Hard Home Truths.

What a grand and great relationship
We’ve forged lovingly together,
We’ll not let our moorings slip
Despite bouts of inhospitable weather.

We’ve now been married for a year,
They say the first one is the worst,
But most who hold us near and dear
See we’re so loved-up we could almost burst.                                                                                                  ,
I’m grateful for this little home we share,
Your family is largely accommodating,
But believe me, I’ve been made painfully aware
That some pleasure in my company’s dissipating.

Every day our love grows stronger
Than it was the day before,
But, Love, it won’t last much longer
If I must abide with Mother-in-law.

I do so love my lovely wife
Yet it feels we still live in sin,
Yes, we’re blessedly Wedding Mass sanctified
But these humble walls are paper thin.

So here we are on our anniversary
And as my darling leans in for a kiss
Through the wall I hear my old adversary-
In the kitchen, hear the steaming boilers hiss?

So let’s not stay celibately in tonight,
Lets sneak out and celebrate our wedding day,
We’ll luxuriate in the Hotel Grands suite delight-
Sometimes we all need to get off and away.

 

 

©Obbverse