photographer Keith brighouse








Maggie with electric copper mane
brighter than fire, clad in black leather
animal skin stretched over animal
sat astride an old Vincent five hundred
its single piston thumping hard

holding the bull by the horns
a twist of the wrist, urged more power
her straightened back, took the shock
the machine belched blue and growled
spat grit then thundered up road

this could be fiction but the memory is fact
riding pillion along the Rivelin Valley
the inflated sun more orange than a Jaffa
female anatomy pushed hard into my groin
not that I was in control, I was hanging on

she handled lovers like she handled a bike
easing them into the bend, lower, lower
accelerating out, then a wheely along the straight
in awe, you surrender to your fate, knowing
if the road doesn't get you, her sex will

the addiction of life at speed, the intake of breath
overtaking and weaving through the flow of traffic

my life depending upon Amazon skills

I see her, stretched naked before me, a road

into some new adventure, just one more time

the summer, Silver Machine played on every juke box

in cafes and pubs, at all night parties
we shared coffee, beer and body fluids, her leathers
unzipped to her navel, the globes of her breasts
always threatened to push free

the sodium street lights bent like sunflower heads
pollinating the dark suburban streets we cruised
my arms belted around her waist, my hands gloved
in her leathers, jealously guarding her sex
inhaling the oily sweat of my Amazonian queen



circumstance has the knack
to contrive to bring us back
to where we console ourselves 
amongst the ruins of our dreary lives

we carry the weight of our years
through the neglected park
tinged with decay and regret
to the pool, now drained and fenced

where we one splashed after a party
our bodies were flexible then
naked, unspoilt, wanting to be conquered
the swing of your hips 

your breasts had the fullness of youth
and the scrub of your hair 
had the vigour of spring growth
your vulva open like an orchid

in quiet moments of reflection 
I still perceive you, your smell
how you tasted, the shape of your clitoris
still pressed in my tongue

now we carry these moments like guilt
unmentioned, should they intrude
disturb our collected disappointments
and mock the people we have become

we will wish each other well
comment on this happy accident
to bump into each other after all this time
and secretly wish we were somewhere else

I will watch you walk away
your body still familiar under the years
imagine how you moved beneath me
mull over the promises we made




time is a worm, worm not squirm

muscle pipe, sucks you in

personality, memory, knowledge
all that is you


worked through its contractions
digested, extruded, reformed,

remodelled, reclaimed, reconstituted, reinvented

you not you but another you

the time between, filled with other people's lives
used for awhile, betrayed, discarded

your ex-husbands, culled like victims

abandoned in a suburban nightmare

so here we are, stealing an hour in a bar
was it really another place, was it really so long ago
we are characters from an old movie

to be forever replayed


fidgeting, uncomfortable as lies
untwisting a past of mutual convenience

memory, like your vagina

a wound I wish to avoid



These photos of model Anete Lusina were made for a themed exhibition in March in Rotterdam.


They were taken in an alley in Sheffield, England, just off Paradise Square, behind the Cathedral.


The poem is part of a new collection of work, available in the new year.



Muse is a book of erotic poetry and poetry video scripts and will be accompanied by a DVD of short videos. The scripts are written from the point of view of the muse.


The poetry is a collection of poetry accumulated over a number of years and is based both on actual experiences and fictions but it is difficult to say where experience ends and fiction begins.


It is what it is and one can only leave the reader to make of it what they will. (But it is good!!!!!!!!). It will be available shortly.

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