Authors Electric

As I shall be in hospital on the 17th (again!) I didn't feel up to a long post, so I thought I would simply paste a few poems in.  Inside the Powder Room, at last.  You’re in, through the wedged- open door, gritting your teeth, minding the pees and queues.   And then, suddenly, they don’t matter -- not any more. It’s one of those Ladies’ moments. The snake of people inside is as out of order as the plumbing, curled in on itself like intestines. You start by talking floor area, cubicles, urinals, male architects.   You could be any vintage, from geezer bird to hot flush to blue rinse.   As you wait, the temperature rises.   Now you’re privy to period pains, polyps, Prozac, uncooperative partners, ungrateful progeny, quashed ambitions, quick abortions, quiet affairs -   but no hot air, no soft soap, no flannel – you’re dishing your own dirt, relieving yourselves of skeletons you won’t be revealing outside.   The te...