Porn Story

I’m busy doing housework; I’m in my baby-doll
I’ve started mildly sweating as the effort takes its toll

My next job is to wash the floors; I grab my mop and bucket
But suddenly I’m soaking wet and screaming out, ‘Oh fuck it!’

The kitchen tap has sprung a leak as I stand at the sink
It’s fast I need to act and on my feet I need to think

I grab the phone and make the call; somehow I know the number
This is a situation that requires an on-call plumber

‘Help me, please! I’ve sprung a leak and need emergency plumbing!’
The deep voice at the other end says, ‘Don’t worry, love, I’m coming.’

Miraculously, he’s at the door as I hang up the phone
And as I bid him entry I can see he’s got a bone.

‘It’s for my dog,’ he tells me, as my mind he easily reads
And as I look him up and down, I know he’ll meet my needs.

‘When you called me I was at the butcher’s round the corner.
It’s my day off, so it’s double-time, I feel I ought to warn ya.’

‘I don’t care what it costs,’ I lie, ‘you have to fix my leak.’
And as he straps his tool-belt on, I feel my knees go weak.

‘Is it very warm in here?’ I innocently ask,
As in his muscled glory I allow myself to bask.

‘It is a bit,’ he says, then asks, ‘may I remove my top?’
‘Oh please, feel free!’ I say too fast and hope he doesn’t stop.

I grab a cloth and dab the perspiration from my neck,
I shouldn’t really think the way I do, but what the heck!

I watch in awe as he unsheathes a length of copper piping
And notice as he looks towards my cleavage that I’m wiping.

‘I’d like to help,’ I offer, ‘shall I hold your tool, perhaps?’
But I get too close and brush against his arm with both my baps.

The tension is too much; I see his pupils are dilating
Then suddenly we’re on the kitchen table, fornicating.

He’s doing me in doggie-style; he’s got me on all fours
And from this fresh perspective I can see my unwashed floors.

I offer some encouragement as I go ‘ahh’ and ‘ooh’
‘Fuck me hard and do to me whatever you must do’

I’m starting to enjoy it as our rhythm finds its pace
But out he’s pulled and spun me round; now he’s cumming on my face!

I feel a little cheated as I didn’t climax yet
I feel a little stupid as my eyelashes are wet

I try to keep things in the mood, but it’s over, I suppose
And I don’t feel very sexy, ’cos I’ve got spunk up my nose

The job is done; my leak is fixed; he’s put away his tools.
It was just a lusty interlude for two hot and horny fools

That night I take my diary from the drawer in which it's hid
I write: ‘Today a plumber screwed me. He charged me three hundred quid!’

Anal Sex

May I speak of anal sex?
For it’s a topic quite complex

There are those who’ve yet to try it
And those who have, but yet deny it

For some, it’s simply too taboo
The anus stays reserved for pooh

While others, it appears, were born
To re-enact a scene from porn

And some whose sphincters stand as sentry
Lest a penis make its entry

For on its exit there’s the fear
That bits of sweet corn may appear

But some relax and gladly loosen
And let their anal passage juicen

Allowing penile penetration
And relishing risqué sensation

For them, their arse holds buried treasure
And untold depths of plundered pleasure

But mine is not the place to judge
If your knickers hold a tell-tale smudge

Whether you do, or whether you don’t
I don’t care if you will or won’t

So analyse this by component
I’m neither contra nor proponent

And if my poem caused you shock
Stay missionary when taking cock

But if my poem made you titter
Perhaps you take it up the shitter

Tucker Jenkins R.I.P.

Farewell Tucker Jenkins; you filled me with desire
You were always much more handsome than your schoolmate, Zammo McGuire
His hair was like a Brillo Pad, where you had gorgeous curls
and brooding looks that changed the lives of all those teenage girls
You 'Grange Hill' boys were heroes; in 'God' status you were 'demi'
I dreamed about you every night in my three-up, two-down semi
So when you left the series to appear in weekly Soap
My heart was simply torn in two; my life bereft of hope
But that was in the eighties, when I was innocent and tender
And I could never really fancy you when you were that 'East Ender'
I don't think I could quite accept Mark Fowler's H.I.V.
So in my heart is your Grange Hill part; Tucker Jenkins - R.I.P.

"Holly"
Acrylic on Paper
COMMISSION

The Buckaroo Blues

I wrote the letter secretly, my parents weren't to know
My demands I’d kept quite modest and the budget pretty low
And though it was a formal note, I kept the tone quite light
It was filled with love and kisses but was nonetheless polite

I made sure that the envelope was carefully addressed
Within the kiss I sealed it with my hopes and prayers were stressed
I popped it in the post-box on my way to school next morning
It was the first day of October so he was getting ample warning

With Christmas three full months away he’d surely get my mail
My careful forward-planning would ensure I couldn’t fail
My girlfriends wanted several toys and were full of Barbie banter
But there was only one small thing I wished to get from Santa

I didn’t ask for roller skates, a pogo-stick or Chopper
I thought it would be greedy to be seeking a Space Hopper
I tried to not sound pushy and wrote ‘please see what you can do’
Hoping my good manners would secure me ‘Buckaroo’

I dreamed about it every night and during class at school
How I longed to load the saddle on that little plastic mule
How thrilling it would be to see that little pack-horse kick
But knowing when he’s just about to do it, that’s the trick!

For as you load his saddle up he hunkers on his haunches
And if just one item overloads that donkey, then he launches!
Would I possess a steady hand and the necessary skill?
The excitement and anticipation nearly made me ill!

Till finally the weeks passed by and it was Christmas Eve
In bed that night I dreamed about the gifts I would receive
And in the morning bright and early out of bed I leapt
I ran and woke my sister in the bedroom where she slept

The two of us were squealing as we scrambled down the stairs
We burst into the living room to view our Christmas wares
As one by one we tore our presents free from all their wrappings
I couldn’t find my little plastic mule and all his trappings

I opened up an Etch-a-Sketch, some crayons and Kerplunk!
But when I got a Barbie-doll my heart was truly sunk
I opened up an art set that was full of paint and glitter
The tears rolled down my face my disappointment was so bitter

Was it that my Buckaroo demands were just too steep
That Santa couldn’t meet them and reduced this girl to weep?
Oh why would I not get to see that little donkey buck?
The reason was quite simple – Santa couldn’t give a fuck!

"The Red Swimsuit"
Oil on Board
65cms x 50cms
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"The Final Length"
Acrylic on Board
91cms x 61cms

"Tea & Toast"
Oil on Board
30cms x 30cms

"Tara"
Oil on Board
75cms x 100cms
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" Shadows & Reflections"
Acrylic on Board
61cms x 45cms

"Raspberry Jam"
Oil on Board
30cms x 30cms

"Oranges & Honey"
Oil on Board
30cms x 30cms

"On the Beach"
Oil on Board
61cms x 71cms

"Nancy"
Acrylic on Board
30cms x 40cms
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"Jack"
Pastel on Paper
40cms x 30cms
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"Irish Landscape"
Watercolour on Paper
30cms x 40cms
SOLD

"In at the Deep End"
Oil on Board
91cms x 61cms

"Fishing Boats"
Acrylic on Canvas
61cms x 91cms

" Feeling Blue"
Oil on Canvas
61cms x 71cms

World Cup Woes

Dear Damien Duff
No need to feel rough
Your efforts could not have been greater

The win was denied
And all Ireland cried
For the lack of a penalty-taker

The loss wasn’t earned
And, oh how we yearned
For Spain to miss one of their kicks

But keep your chin up
And your eye on that cup
‘Cos it’s yours in 2006