Three Poems By Carlton Hunt

(Performing floral sex)

Blossoming in ribbons and bows,
she's feeling thorny,
in any other game, a rose.

So quiet you could hear a snowdrop,
I nipped her in the bud,
Best in show, pick of the crop.

Searching for fools marigold
I kissed her on the tulips,
A pound a bunch, to have and to hold.

The scene of domestic violets,
With fertile thoughts in my head,
To plant her into my flowerbed.

Forget me not in the mass wisteria,
It was completely lupin,
Committing carnation sin

I'm totally head over heals in foxglove,
Absolutely blooming triffid, my son.



Factory fortnight suffering with snakebite,
Dribbling between two lukewarm seats
A glittering prize from the underage heats,
Bra-top girl's family paradise,
Comes with bitter lemon and a slice.

Dancing on duty, handstand of beauty,
Sweeping around the cabaret hell,
Two generations of lacquer and brain gel,
Crop top diva naming a low price,
Dog end of weekend, pickled in old spice.

Hen night, green light, shoes that are too tight,
A Lycra legging of lamb to the slaughter,
Vodka delirium, like mutton like daughter,
Cock sure trawler hauls in an easy catch,
Nearly sixteen, fresh from the cabbage patch.

Open gate, too late, swallowed her new fate,
Cold morning after in the chalet of shame,
A leg over loser in the live bingo game,
Vanity farm's summer pigs roast in the sun,
Drowning in lager and calling it fun.


(The ballad of Rose and Ern)

It's the end of a wet summer season,
She painted her lips on, he polished his slip-ons,
One last turn, strictly for old timers' sake
Fifty years with numbers on their backs,
Not a single mistake.

Her smile would deepen while sewing on the sequins,
His iron depresses the creases on her dresses,
With one ear on the boxing and one eye on the music,
The gliding handsome twosome move now,
Too slow, slow, quick.

In the final holiday ballroom thriller,
Playing up to the driftwood flotilla,
He squints, and can still see her,
Shimmering, out beyond the closed down pier.

They're the dancing has-beens,
The local paper king and queen,
The island's loveliest, loneliest pairing,
Let's hear it for the parquet-flooring darlings.

Come dancing my love.