I wrote a poem called Bed Sex, for the Glasgow based zine, Letters to Barnacle, which is inspired by James Joyce’s filthy letters to Nora Barnacle, check it out, the whole zine is dead rude.
Bed Sex I dream I fuck an old woman and wake up more anxious than usual, perhaps because she’s looking away and as I spin her round her bum and boobs are so soft that she’s not an old lady now at all. Next, a paternal presence with hyena mane closes down his shop so we can do it, but the customers keep on coming in and in and we feel guilty. Tomorrow I am going to a fake forest, fearlessly to be touched as if there was no word like ‘touch’ and no red, scratchy body either. Sex!