Trampled Underfoot somewhere off Route 7 by Welton B Marsland

It’s raining outside
when you fuck him in your car
rivers beat on the windows,
pulse beats in your cock
as you fight your way
inside each other’s space
and clothes
and defences.
On hands and knees
on leather
on bitching suspension,
the car creaks and
calls you a cocktease ‘cos
you’re screwing him so shallow,
spit-shined knob reeling him in slow
before fucking him hard
like a bass chord
like a John Paul Jones
one.
There’s pounding on the roof
when, beneath your hands,
he twists under you
and looks up and back,
pins you naked like you aren’t
right now
and tells you
“I like this song.”

 

Originally published in CQ6: Smut.

Welton B. Marsland

Still tickled I managed to get cars, fucking, bass guitars & Led Zep into one short poem. Twitter at me here – @wbmarsland

partial memories of friday night by Liz Duck-Chong

i fell asleep on a train,
woke up in a new place,
well, not a new place, but i
didn’t have all my bearings – a
place less travelled, found
my way back where i’d
come from, wrapped in
scarves slowly unravelled.

the bus fell halted, held
askew, we watched the
view, two headlights illuminated
a brick wall and shop, it
had spun like a star out
ahead of us til a full stop.
then drove into the night.

i leaned into a shoulder,
passing lights overhead as
we swam into the sounds
of an album growing older;
she held me, an inverse,
i’d usually hold her, i told
her, she laughed. i leaned
harder, felt colder.

i divulged a whole secret,
there’s not that many left
but i’d managed to keep it
held tight to my chest as
a symbol of individuality,
let it boil inside me, gently
steep it. maybe it changed
me, i’m not sure. yes i mean
it.

 

Originally published in CQ5: Poetry.

Liz Duck-Chong | she & they | 5
Liz is a writer, sexual health nerd and filmmaker who has had articles, poetry and essays in a range of publications. She co-hosts wholesome sex ed show @letsdoitpodcast, and is on Twitter at @lizduckchong.