BABYCHAMS
Here under a large pub table
hidden by its tasselled cloth
in my own private theatre
of self
making my Dinky car
come alive
and run on high grade
imagination.
The chattering of aunts
like a foreign language.
I could never understand
the clatter of the lingo.
When suddenly a pair of female legs
****** themselves under my table.
Then another and another
each ********** into my space
like an iron maiden
of fleshly legs.
All shapes and sizes
stocking...un-stockinged
skirts hitched up beyond
as far as possible
knickered...un-knickered
places scratched
never thought possible.
And I in the one breathing space left
unable to breath.
I was that French cartoon cat
chased by Pepé Le Pew.
"Le pant!"
I gasped
"Le phew!"
Aunts abandoning all their power
returning to being the girls they were.
The Babycham gone
to their heads.
And I forever
putting aside
childish things
and toys
wise as a Solomon
though thoroughly terrified
with this
the newest of knowledge.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
BABYCHAMS
Here under a large pub table
hidden by its tasselled cloth
in my own private theatre
of self
making my Dinky car
come alive
and run on high grade
imagination.
The chattering of aunts
like a foreign language.
I could never understand
the clatter of the lingo.
When suddenly a pair of female legs
****** themselves under my table.
Then another and another
each ********** into my space
like an iron maiden
of fleshly legs.
All shapes and sizes
stocking...un-stockinged
skirts hitched up beyond
as far as possible
knickered...un-knickered
places scratched
never thought possible.
And I in the one breathing space left
unable to breath.
I was that French cartoon cat
chased by Pepé Le Pew.
"Le pant!"
I gasped
"Le phew!"
Aunts abandoning all their power
returning to being the girls they were.
The Babycham gone
to their heads.
And I forever
putting aside
childish things
and toys
wise as a Solomon
though thoroughly terrified
with this
the newest of knowledge.
A twenty-minute-write-a-poem that emerged from Ian McLachlan's poetry workshop at The Corner in Wembley Library the other evening.
I knew Ian of course as the perfect poet/performer that he is and now can add poetry facilitator to his accomplishments. Much thanks for his ability to drag these words outta me.
That insufferable romantic skunk who stunk of his own "me me me-ness" and inflated ego and libido.
The long suffering female cat that he would mistakenly take for a female skunk("la belle femme skunk fatale") due to some circumstantial mishap( squeezing under a fence with wet white paint)was of course -Penelope Pussycat. The fractured French would half us in stitches...."Le mew? Le purrrrrrr!"
Pepé: (sings) Affaire d'amour ? Affaire de cœur ? Je ne sais quoi… je vive en espoir. (Sniffs) Mmmm m mm… un smella vous finez… (Hums)
Even titles laid it on thick - FOR SCENT-IMENTAL REASONS...SCENT-IMENTAL OVER YOU...ODOR OF THE DAY..ODOR-ABLE KITTY...LOUVRE COME BACK TO ME!
