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He was a prince, my first one
with eyes that laughed at once
he dragged me down, without a sound
into a teenage dance.

Brand new awe and wonder
of hearts and fragile breath
he swept up glass, I fell fast
he caught me close to death.

Softly voiced his sentiment
kissed in dashboard glow
faded jeans, stripped and lean
of course, I didn't know.

That when first love comes calling
there is no precedent
upon the heart, to be that smart
or kick up sediment.

From bitter-ended failings
or "old enough to know"
the slate is clean, and free to dream
into the fire we go.

He had a buried sadness
a secret carried weight
young life horror, so mine he'd borrow
to use as guiding light.

A well-worn, sickened fever
shamed him to the core
but made him sweet and fragile
and made me love him more.

He danced me to a cliff-top
to jump had he so bidden
he told me things, of diamond rings
and knew where they were hidden.

I could not conceive of daylight
less that fringed and suntanned boy
came to arrive, at half-past five
and I would be so coy.

But there was no put-on acting
modesty not false
his dusty jeans, their old smooth seams
quickening my pulse.

I knew little of desire
of seduction, not a shred
but from his hands, I bear the brands
of how I make my bed.

Then, one day I knew it over
he'd told me he would fly
when he'd gone, I got on
with the if's and but's and why.

Of why he didn't want me
if I'd been "the one"
but age and time have proven
that the best was yet to come.
Maybe thinking about it too much
made it real.
Perhaps suspicion is the creator
and uncertainty the maker.
To quote a well-worn platitude:
this is not my fault.
Or is it?
In some small part
fears crystalised, realised
just by being thought.
There is a certain type
that I am apt to like,
a Galliano smirk, it's true,
won't make me take a hike.

A bourbon habit, one raised brow
a slow-drawled "Well, hello" -
call me a sucker, I don't care,
I admire a brogue-shod fellow.

Wrap him up in hairy tweed
mixed with well-packed denim,
the physicality of Welles
and literaryness of Heming (way).

Politics were not a factor,
or nationality,
he engaged my interest
with his brand of flattery.

Challenging in points of view
debating through small hours,
I'd much rather conversation
than all the world of flowers.

For I've no need of roses
to get my fix of blush.
His whispers in a crowded room
will rise me to a flush.

This man of perfect manners,
I'm as Venus when I stand
with my jazzophile Jupiter,
conjuncted, hand-in-hand.

Shooting stars if wished upon
may bring one single wish.
Thus I knew, the day I met him,
I had found my bliss.
I’m a gal of fine sensibility
apt to demand credibility
for my choice of man, he’ll be no sham
with notions conceived of nobility.

He denies himself nothing of luxury
the cut of his suits suggest much to me
his grooming precise, ****, he smells nice
a cologne of his own secret recipe.

He’d never countenance faux
all accoutrements must be “just so”
he’ll not partake of anything fake
he’s quality from head to toe.

Leather-soled, tweed-wrapped pure gold
when they made him they sure broke the mould
dyed in the wool, no fashion slave fool
such style is to have and to hold.

This gentleman’s rituals suffice
to see him sartorially through life
with manners divine, this husband of mine
Lord, I’m so proud I’m his wife!
Plush carpet, soft light
Hotel foyer at night.
Oh, what a fright!
I might be a looker,
don’t mean I’m a ******.
Did my lipstick suggest that I might?

“Madam, how you like this play”?
The disgrace on my face gives me away.
What did you think I was going to say?
“Hey, Jack, let’s get out of this place”?

(That’s three questions in four lines
so for clarification of this causation
my effect carries no invitation).

It’s a case of mistaken identity:
You didn’t sent for me,
so can’t pay rent for me.
Baby, I ain’t no lady… of the night.

That’s not why I came here,
and it’s not the same, dear.
Quit with the Shakespeare!
This chick has much to protest.

To signal intent for your frontin’
you should wear a carnation or somethin’,
be discreet, don’t hang out the bunting.
So, I attract, I won’t deny fact,
but your attention is bordering on hunting.

It’s a case of mistaken identity:
You didn’t sent for me,
so can’t pay rent for me.
Baby, I ain’t no lady… of the night.
Having never sought fulfilment
in the pursuit of being mother
my body is my temple
for use of no-one other
than my own indulged desires
of aesthetics, pleasure, fun,
so, yes, I fret the stretch marks,
the odd pimple on my ***.

I obsess, in terms of thread veins,
for they make me feel unpretty,
so vain, if that doth make me,
I accept in all its gritty,
ugly notions – for us gals are meant to be
vessels of life-giving, all procreation’ry.

“Oh! I know my body’s purpose”!
the new mother’s apt to cry.
I shall not regret my choices
biologics tick… ticking by.
Does that mean our sad mechanics
are bereft of serving purpose?
It is no hard done-by chore,
our childlessness not cursed us.

When I stand, unclothed and natural
my body has a story
I don’t need the marks of childbirth
to feel a sense of glory.
All this talk of ‘battle scars’
babies sure sound painful,
but, forgive me, all you mothers
should I dare to sound disdainful.

It’s just I feel no less a woman
for not having given birth,
and there is no singular purpose
for this body on this earth.
Like living in a desert
enduring shifting sands,
the bits I’ve never really liked
I cover up with clothes and hands.

I’ve no need to ‘love my body’, thanks
I’m just fine with friendly banter.
Angles, poise and lighting
three small words – a mighty mantra.
Self-love is overrated
when costume is the thing,
and my body wears it well, you see,
and the pleasure that it brings
is proof enough that any scars
may be healed to nothing
without the need for motherhood
and its pushy, panting, puffing.

So curse my sour dismissives!
I’m all said and done,
the female form has every purpose
babies ain’t the only one.
She left me in a hurry,
with no word of her return
so I sit and wait, in longing,
keep her treasures safe, and yearn

for her face to gaze upon me,
as she fettles her dear skin,
with the pots of creams and lotions
I keep for her, within

my rose-lined drawers and cupboards,
the little blue glass bird
with wedding rings upon his beak
I asked, he hasn’t heard

of when our lady may be back
to grace us with her care,
her brushes sit with us and fret
of the tangles in her hair

and all lack of gloss and shine
finger tips cannot bestow
within her titian crowning,
oh! Where did she go?

Days slip by unhindered,
and merging seasons pass,
without her song or laughter
reflected in my glass.

I may as well be firewood,
my veneer begins to crack,
then, hark! I hear sweet footsteps!
My mistress has come back!

Her wedding rings rehomed at last,
the bird and I rejoice,
as she brushes out her hair and sings,
for we have missed her voice.

She polishes away the cracks,
takes a seat upon her throne,
rearranging pots and lotions,
I’m so glad that she came home.
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