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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