(content warning) Blackpool Tryst

[Brownlie]

Very graphic for sure, but there are some things to like in this poem. I would suggest getting rid of the thoughts, I'll go through and show you what I would cut.

I drummed my fingers on his hips
in this rented room, by a beach
littered with working men and women
who flee, once a year,
to this fete of a town...

I finally stopped drumming and gripped,
roughly massaging his waist.
I kissed his neck. He moaned.
Acting? I found him on a stage, after all.
Or maybe he likes older men, and I,
40 to his 22, filled an ache
somewhere inside a fractured stone. -- Oh man, I find the age difference compelling as a theme.

I started unbuckling his belt
and he leaned forward instinctively,
palms on the bedspread.
The soft, yielding pear of an anus, -- I don't know about anus in there, it certainly takes the poem to a new level.
Sweating, I felt like a pervert in a trench coat,
leading cherubs into darkness. -- I think this guilt and the desire that act as an impetus to do things we may consider morally wrong is a good theme.
But still it would have happened, so I pushed my way inside
as gently as I could, responding to the tones of his voice.

A small part of me wondered what
was going on outside...
"a bird perches on a discarded carton of chips,
a woman links arms with a man she's just met,
and two lost children cry by a newsagent's stand".

I don't think my critique was very constructive but I like the feeling of honesty.