to me
contemporary
is a nonsensical word

i see it in magazines
glossy, rouge-lipped women
oak warped into strange shapes

men with bulges in their trousers.
canals reflect it
Amsterdam breathes evening into dawn

and i stand in the garden and try so hard
to be female.

it is upon this merit
that silk echoes strangers
sweat stains, bloody knickers

(for lover, i have sworn to be different)
vows are stumbled upon and repeated in gossamer
analysing passion

in the throes of which
i am not me. bent over, slapped arse
i tell you i enjoy the taste of your tongue.

of course i am lying.

of course i am female.