I Watch Our Backs


the screech of her relentlessly
honed, chrome polished thighs
ignited our anti post-apocalyptic,
sizzling bedroom bonfire vanities.

a monumental discourse illuminated
our medieval mental manuscripts
as her meandering indulgence
flowed into my neck of the would have.

modern rocker vespers blitzed our
Saturday night shiv and live while the
domestic promise of the post-war
unwanted pregnancy product whose

name was probably not what it seemed
heralded a welfare state of dreams
that could not be broken before they
had been dishonestly vouchsafed.

the traumatised father of my last love
worked nights at the oil refinery.
she, an apprentice hairdresser, ditched
for the sake of her English ungrammar.

orange street lamps illuminated a snow
buried street of 1960’s falsified housing.
she meets me halfway and her mouth
has the taste of the last thing she licked.

she is my new girl and I am the teacher
of lost words yet merely a student of her
compulsory ceremonies of what she tells
me is the only acceptable proof of love.

and she takes me home with her where
we sit around the corner in that L shaped
living room and conquer new territories
while her mother crochets away the war.

© James Sapsard 2013

Yet There Is Madness In’t


I remember 1820 because I was there.
my last two teenage years and the last
year of my second decade.

whenever I chose to leave was okay
but I hated the feeling of rejection
when I was told to go/sent home.

so I must tell you, that even though
I love you beyond infinity,
I can’t go to the party tonight.

I’m thinking of a friend who died,
wealthy beyond extravagant dreams
and yet he came to me
because he respected my opinion

and of the girl in the blue mini
who lived up and down the road
and who picked me up
and showed me the sights
and shielded me
from her distastefully vulgar parents.

Marianne was in the hammock
waiting for the love that was avoiding her
and that girl who was on the album cover,
I wonder who and what happened to her.
re-issued in digital format for instant
download and aural gratification?

with the advent of media analogue,
we dissidents are no longer radioactive
but still green and glowing in the dark,
indifferent still to entrenched authority
and ignoring the inexplicable limitations
of precisely argued logical constraints.

© James Sapsard 2013

An English Schoolboy In Rome


she held him with as much love as a call girl’s
love for money and desire for safety could express;
with more love than he had ever known.

in the shadow of the Basilica, her mouth of
a thousand salivas both tainted and purified his

the other side of a few walls away, befrocked priests
penalised their defrocked brethren through perverse
fear of castigation.

she spoke the multilingual English of economic necessity,
the recipient of his insecurity, borne over waters blue
into the pale, yearning flanks of her dual compulsion.

his reply heralded an arc of her tears as she was held,
for the first time, in the arms of a fallen, yet elevated
angel, to hear his sympatico blessing, “Io ti amo.”

© James Sapsard 2013

The Last Word


we gave, to love, every sense our school masters
and their mistresses had denied us in their pastoral
country matters establishment, but which some
god’s mortally sinful field residents, in their
hide coats of many colours, had brazenly paraded
before us in their Elysian fields which lined our
slow, daily meander home, lost in saliva reverie.

speaking in bleating, lowing and whinnying
tongues, the grass grew greener beneath their sins.

in the later, orange, autumnal glow, my maiden,
fifteen, a year younger than I, revealed her
burning secret to her awed male companion,
as we pedalled our pink and blue, respectively,
bicycles around each other, circling endlessly,
or until teatime, carefully studying the apex
of each other’s taut, blue denim clad, thighs.

“when I sit on my bike and lean against the wall
and rock myself on the saddle, something happens.”

so we left both bikes against the wall, leaning
intimately into each other, saddles caressing,
as we ran into the nearest woods to become
each other’s saddle; and then on buses, in the
cinema and in the back seat of her father’s car
as he drove us home after seeking to impress us
with the new, local, American style supermarket.

unaware of the treats with which he was
accommodating us, he neither knew nor
understood the source of our conspiratorial
laughter every time he decelerated to drive
defiantly through the blissfully long, pot-holed
stretch of bumpy, disrepaired, private road,
running between the rich people’s houses.

we bumped and bounced, secret skin to secret skin,
to his bragadoccio that it made him feel good inside
and there was nothing anyone could do about it
and that was the best reason for doing anything.

then another time when I became empathetically
emotional, my eyes overflowing with honesty,
his decree that if I behaved like a baby, I deserved
to be treated like a baby, his turning to his wife,
her obedient agreement and my maiden’s secret
whisper in my ear that she was always a baby.

then his posturing diktat that in his house, we’d do
what our elders expected without question or dissent
and again, his wife’s quiet acquiescence of her power.

then the Friday he let me stay over after school,
his early morning departure, my sleeping in, my maiden’s
coveted first Saturday job and my gentle awakening
by her mother’s soft entry, her hand on my brow and her
whisper that the baby slept and she had too much milk.

my recollection that I deserved to be treated like a baby
and must do as expected without question or dissent

& that I declined an invitation to hypocrisy and betrayal.

© James Sapsard 2013