Guest Blogger: Tim Wells

Wednesday, July 15, 2009


Her breasts sang loud. I mean, she belted it out from the heart.
The give was fine folksy longing, cider, Sandy Denny, and scarlet ribbons.
But the nipples, the nipples were rawk.
To see her sashay was to feel the beating of joy in the world.
All Bonham and John Paul Jones.
The swing robbed many a young man of doubt.
To see her racking pool balls, oh walls come tumbling down!
Page ran a swathe through her cleavage, crashing chords and walking guitars.
And yes, I was there, caught up in the crush with the rest.
Adoring, and desperate, and feeble.
My hand outstretched, straining but never reaching.
But, I admit, to Houses of the Holy, I bought it all.

Schoolboys have a master to teach them, grown-ups have the poets.
Aristophanes – The Frogs

She is beautiful and slight; not weak, but finely turned:
Much as a precise pair of scales will balance all that is put upon them –
First this way, then that, and then speak true.
The way a leisurely man cups a welcome pair of breasts
And deliberates on the fluctuations of fortune that may be his fate.

Lately she has been cracking comedy, a tough game.
We talk hecklers, You must have had them before? I ask.
She tells of a burlesque she did as a comedy turn
And was barracked by shouts of Show us yer tits!
Did you riposte, You’ll be disappointed?

Her eyes narrow, reveal no humour as she says, They wouldn’t.
As ever, in the hang of the balance, she speaks true.

Tim Wells is a respected face on the London poetry scene, with a number of collections published by DoNut Press. He can be found at:

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