I can hear the sunshine
beating out a tune:
A high, clear note
in counterpoint to Patti Smith.
The hiss and pop of vinyl,
as a dust clogged needle
jumps another groove.
The smell of cheap plastic
from overheating speakers
creates a crude harmonic
with the smell of cheap cologne.
There is a drought,
except in the creaking folds
of leather trousers,
awash with teenage hormones.
I can hear the cool shock
of water in a paddling pool:
Next door, a girl shrieks
with a shiver in her voice.
My fingertips stroke the carpet
and crave the goose pimpled
contours of her skin.
I know she is too young,
but I lust after what she may become.
The dick is not a hypocrite,
as Patti sings; 'Jesus died
for somebody's sins, but not mine'.
And the seeds of poetry grow
in the vesicles of this moment;
a wet dream leaking from my pen.
