The sex pest

He makes things up, says
he is a girl called Angy McCoy, a baker,
that he lives uptown in a cul-de-sac and his father is running a bank.
After that he puts on a floral jacket with puffy sleeves, but he cannot fob me.
For I know he’s Angus, as big as a Scottish steak, above and below.

I’m used to see him strutting downtown to his rented flat on top of the pebble-dashed Eagle,
where his mother I know works as barmaid for many a year,
who buys her pleated skirts from Oxfam, calls him “dear” or “darling”.

He is on the dole like you do:
a gloomy bedroom, a dark loo with a theme,
but always a rainbow at the end of each dream, a useless cheerfulness tugging on hope, and if there’s no dope
he is helping his mum with the shopping.

But some load must weigh heavily inside him:
His envy of couples, their passion, his visions of naked bodies contorted in Kama Sutra positions he has learned by heart.

He tests senses wherever they live:
touch, taste and smell, susses out the best lingerie sale,
where his eyes are hell bent on the ruffled-up bras,
where he buries his nose in the scent of fresh underwear (even oversized knickers),
where he strokes heart-embroidered chemisoles with shaky fingers,
tugs at pink ribbons and sucks in all silky bulges and shapes
while harassing staff (my sister works there)
by asking for the latest panty hose styles!

Which gives him ideas to try his own hand in what he can do:
baking bum shapes, full and lethal, curved in puff pastry,
he’d make penises dipped in rose water,
form torsos with delicate neck lines, cinnamon-dusted on all the right places.
His favorite thing, he imagines, would be
rye bread genitalia in colours from light to dark with dashes of cummin,
and fleshy strawberry cake lips, sorted by size and flair,
also a twin chocolate éclair in the shape of white breasts,cherries for nipples on top.

When he thinks of the taste, it melts in his mouth
and his tongue flops its skin like a snake,
but this is only a visual bake, he’s always been lazy
for nothing in him hints at true physical art.
He’s lonely at heart, hours gnawed and spent
with the notebook he bought second hand.

It’s there, where all’s coming together,
where he loosens the reins of his mind to drop his shenanigans
like dropping his trousers (one of his tricks, my sister saw him) dawdling in the park, watching the girls taking flight.

Others he traps on the net, a smooth talker in space,
when he poses under the mantle of poetry,
concocting poems about his sexual bread innovations,(that’s how I learnt about all this)
or the way the clouds draw male organs from light and shade, (ahhh...)
to the outrage of his fellow poets,
when he sails high on the waves of sexual innuendo
that would make his own mother blush if she knew.
The thought of it carries him even higher, brings him to spasms, pure joy....
Yes, it’s Angus McCoy.
Read for yourself, tell him you know, make him cringe!