I'm sorry but I just don't like you in that way.
Yes, I know you'd work like a Pole,
mortgage your soul,
shovel **** in cold bitter
as a Borderline love lyric
for me and my baby girl.
I know you'd keep the vampires from the door,
man up to the big bad wolf,
fling yourself full square
into the fangful furnace of a dragon
to buy my baby girl and I precious seconds.
I know you'd be our sacrificial
human bridge on a sinking ship,
subdue your sweat reflex
so we wouldn't slip.
I know'd you'd be a doormat,
I know you'd be a hard nut,
I know you'd hunt and gather,
I know you'd beg and borrow.
And I know
you'd listen to my every childhood fear,
that everything I've ever suffered
would move you to a poet's tears,
then you'd hunt down my abusers,
every last one, and give them a taste
of backstreet Cockney justice
in a lockup garage.
you'd pull yourself together forever,
renounce the sauce, the juice, the tabs, the gear,
all that diehard dieeasy despair at the bottom
of the battered heart of you.
And, mummified in nicotine patches,
buddy up to all mankind, be a crusader without rest
for a world that might even begin to be a beacon
of anything good enough to guide my baby girl
to eternal safety, just that I might enjoy peace
of mind whilst I live and after I die. I know
you'd go everywhere I've ever wanted to see,
anywhere I've ever wanted to be, no matter
how hard people are for you. I know
you'd become the world's foremost scholar
of the Karma Sutra, a
supple sinewy spidery suitor,
that my ******* would be the pinkest pearl
in the least seedy, most respectful
*** museum ever opened.
And that you would be its
Gollumesque curator, attentive
to an extreme, lickpolishing it even after you're spent.
so it ruddily radiates in evermore
innermore ******* strobe,
hard light of my sensuality in forever-1st-time-like
rush and flush of perfect play gentle and rough.
You would be my Gollum but with a better bottom,
in a crotchless deepsea diversuit were that my kink.
In bed, my Drop Dead Fred, my disgusting best friend.
Postcoitally, we'd strip down
to our inner children, you would remind me
laughter is the ****** of the child.
to you my ******* would always be the perfect *******,
however the autumn of the female form might fall,
that you'd squeeze them thru out the night from fitful
fear my glories won't be there *** morning. Or clasp
my little finger in your sleep like an instinctively
worshipful newborn. And
however stout and selfaccepting and Rubenesque
in domestic bliss I become, due to everyday Valentine's
pralines and your fussing, lifeextending homecooked
meals, I know you'll still stay trim, get down the gym,
splash on some aftershave, put on a nice shirt,
in case I desert you for the next Jackthelad. I know
there'd be so many trails of rosepetals to our boudoir,
so many silken rosepetals on the silk bedsheets
you'd be in hock to Harrods for, that the hooverbag
would be like a florist's returning from holiday.
that when you're ancient as Mummra and his spirits of evil,
you'd spend a pharaoh's ransom on ******
just to make me still feel attractive, run
your arthritic fingers with difficulty thru my blue rinse.
And if I know anything,
it's that you'd write me a poem everyday,
illustrate like a whitehot monk
all the fantasias for children I've ever
idly imagined a fulfilling moneyspinner.
I'd be a Gala to your Dali
without all the twisted ****. I know
we'd be the Broadland Brangelina,
that if it ever came to it, one phonecall
after twenty years and you'd fly to me
like an angel from back in the day,
adopt my Accrington Stanley
football team of other men's kids
and lead them up the leagues. I know
you'd lie for me, die for me,
change for me, stop being strange for me.
you'd lie for my baby girl, die for my baby girl,
change for my baby girl, stop being strange for my
baby girl. But
I'm sorry, I don't know what to say,
I just don't like you in that way.