Let’s observe the decencies at least. Hasn’t he got a son somewhere down south? A Science Park near Rickmansworth? Some god of background radiation?
O Venus, rising from Lurline Bay, Your one-piece just rolled down, What is a boy to do but hang on your every word And especially gesture? Please come down the beach café. If you’re a photo-shoot I’ll post my genes to you, You’re the stock I’d choose alright, Or if I could give them to you tit-for-tat How many times would be considered Extraordinary? O Valeria, Amelia sweet Lianne, Propitious Queens of Love, we could be at it Lunch and dinner, feeling the universe move ever outward, Always to origins not endings, bodies a-tumble, Not cogitators’ mind and soul (how’s this for a line!) O Venus I’m the one to move the earth with you, Help you with your hawthorn hedges (half-run wild) Your trodden mires, boot-dung, Rich and claggy marls, sludge and colt’s-foot, The slopes of rubble that you’ve colonised, Your haycocks, bullock pasture, Jam jars full of spawn, Your turbid rivers at the flood – None of this moves but by your love!
And if Mars, that real glamour boy, Skin buffed and glossed, hairless to the drapery-fold, My best mate, can be drawn to drowse
JEFFREY WAINWRIGHT | 80