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Ralph Corke Nov 2013
It’s inherent, a ritual passed through ages, fashions change but the outcomes the same. We make ourselves desirable, attractive. We plump out our manes and puff our collars, rouge our cheeks and lips, blood pumping to all our organs. It’s our tribal wear. We soak up sweet alcoholic nectar, loosening our inhibitions and bringing out our inner basic urges.



We hit a club called the watering hole, gorillas on the door filtering out the runts. My paws stick to the floor and the walls drip with sweat. The disco lights burn down on me with a heat like the desert. You can’t move without making eye contact with someone. Single men lean against the walls, and lurk in the shallows like alligators. Waiting for a young philly to wonder past a little worse for wear. Snap. Men dance with their tops off, sweat making their skin glisten like a serpent. The first thing you have to do is get to the bar, its packed and the bodies push against you as all trying to get to the front. The first few drinks numb you and make you confident, you begin to be seduced by the music and dance floor. The air is humid and the smell of smoke has faded away, just leaving the smell of body odour coming from the hippo taking up most of the dance floor. The main smell overpowering all this is ***, pure unfiltered ***, the place reeks of it. This place is a meat market, but there’s all kinds of animal on show. You’ve got your flamingos who stand there beautiful, looked at but not touch, you’ve also got your warthogs content rolling in their filth,  you’ve got your grizzly bears sniffing out the honey. Me I’m a hyena, (laugh) a pack animal, we hunt in small groups, dotted around the stage, causing mischief among the herd, we’re jokers, entertainers, it might all look like a laugh but cross one of us and feel our bite which is certainly worse than our bark.

There’s one though, he’s a lion, king of the beasts, everything else is just meat, he locks onto his target, he stealthy crosses the dance floor to prey on it, there’s plenty of meat around but that’s the one he wants, it’s a game, we lock eyes, I can’t move, it’s survival of the species, and he’s top of the food chain. Once he has me he takes his fill and leaves me to the vultures.

I lick my wounds to start again. And then I realise the hunter has become the hunted.
Ralph Corke Jun 2013
“do you love me?”
What does it mean when you ask me? How can you not tell?
If you can’t tell that I love you then maybe that’s just as well.
You see I’ve never felt love before, just lust, pain or adoration,
But I know it shouldn’t lie so easy with constant hesitation.
“Do You Love Me!?”
The question pierces my ear but my lips are not sincere
The words don’t roll off my tongue as easy does my eye.
My heart doesn’t beat in rhythm until the time we say goodbye.
I need to breathe, let me breathe. But all I do is sigh.
“DO YOU LOVE ME?!!”
How can you spit wasps at me when all I want to speak is butterflies?
Do you know what love is or is just easier to be cruel than to be kind?
How can I tell you, with tears, with yells, with infidelity? How do I tell you I love you? With lies, broken promises and charity?
“I’ll ASK YOU ONE LAST TIME, IF YOU DON’T ANSWER ME THEN IT’S FINAL.”
Cocked gun at my head, pale blue vision turning scarlet red
“DO.”
It’s small led shaft pointed at my brain, no warmth left.
No time to say I’m sorry just forced words to relieve me of my breath.
“YOU”
Tie a noose to the yew tree and kiss me on the cheek.
It’ll bow down it’s branches and grow new roots. I’ll be ok, escaped to love another day.
“LOVE”
Pull the trigger, I won’t tell. You’ll never know, you can go to hell.
“ME?”**
Yes, of course I do. Why do you even have to ask?

— The End —