She lay in his bed
Scenes of tunnels & trains
& thoughts of trite moosh run through her head
when young she saw him different
with a quiff
& a whiff of CK on levis
& a watch with LED lights
& a t-shirt blue, skin tight
but with fashion aside
her passion subsides
when he enters not so gently,
did not test the waters
did not guess it was low tide
During the evening they danced
They got down to steady trance
But now it seems he’s in free time
A strange rhythm, so contrived
He doesn’t look like he knows it
Doesn’t seem like type
To quote ornette coleman
In the dark of the night
He has the feel of squashed fruit
And the thwack of a wet sock
Flooped out like misplaced steps
Of a horse learning to walk
The night entertainment then,
Condemned to an eye on a clock
Whilst sharing sweaty absorbence
& not at all evenly proportioned
the most obtuse solos
are always too long
and if made into a duet
it’s just awkward & wrong
one face polite
as one face holds strong
held strong in the notion
it is the king of this realm, his own
like a deluded ****** rock star
with an out of tune guitar
& a confused young groupie
rebelling against her ma & pa
in the end he doesn’t sell it
rather he gives it away
& she is obliged to take it
to carry on the shared charade
a feeble dance of pretence
not to shatter the held façade
of a bullied masculinity
of a young boy fully charged
of a girl swooned by a conman
albeit not well disguised
she convinced herself a prince of sorts
fit to break past her royal guard
she leaves bored & unfulfilled
while he sleeps sound & proud
her dreaming of a prince she’ll soon meet
with a better sense of time
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
She lay in his bed
Scenes of tunnels & trains
& thoughts of trite moosh run through her head
when young she saw him different
with a quiff
& a whiff of CK on levis
& a watch with LED lights
& a t-shirt blue, skin tight
but with fashion aside
her passion subsides
when he enters not so gently,
did not test the waters
did not guess it was low tide
During the evening they danced
They got down to steady trance
But now it seems he’s in free time
A strange rhythm, so contrived
He doesn’t look like he knows it
Doesn’t seem like type
To quote ornette coleman
In the dark of the night
He has the feel of squashed fruit
And the thwack of a wet sock
Flooped out like misplaced steps
Of a horse learning to walk
The night entertainment then,
Condemned to an eye on a clock
Whilst sharing sweaty absorbence
& not at all evenly proportioned
the most obtuse solos
are always too long
and if made into a duet
it’s just awkward & wrong
one face polite
as one face holds strong
held strong in the notion
it is the king of this realm, his own
like a deluded ****** rock star
with an out of tune guitar
& a confused young groupie
rebelling against her ma & pa
in the end he doesn’t sell it
rather he gives it away
& she is obliged to take it
to carry on the shared charade
a feeble dance of pretence
not to shatter the held façade
of a bullied masculinity
of a young boy fully charged
of a girl swooned by a conman
albeit not well disguised
she convinced herself a prince of sorts
fit to break past her royal guard
she leaves bored & unfulfilled
while he sleeps sound & proud
her dreaming of a prince she’ll soon meet
with a better sense of time
Request permission to use this poem