the scribbles of obscenities 
on the back of toilet doors
sometimes get me horny

my eyes browse internet porn
like a fine wine critic's fingers
caress the drinks menu at Claridge's 

sometimes I see the face 
of my wife, in the post-sex cigarette fumes
that fill the motorway hotel room
I've booked for just an afternoon

every pair of breasts in our cul-de-sac
is emblazoned on my retina
like the face of a first-born child
in their mother's eyes

I have a secret sim card
stored behind the photo
of you in my wallet

the picture I often look at 
and wish you were still that young

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About Michael Ashley


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I ate a wasp once and it stung my arse. How unlucky was that.
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