“What is he doing here?” was the first thing I heard
Upon entering John Lennon’s home once more,
Deciding in the end to pitch for the party,
Sleepers still being repaired and no trains running still.

The challenge came from Wendy the Witch,
Ex-recipient of roses,
Now thorny-tongued
And egged on by Lennon’s kid, the sneering host.

My bruised ego now vanishing the gift of speech,
Jane Seymour arrived with her medicine bag,
Taking me out under the dark, solitary tree
To take in some air and shop for stars.

“I wouldn’t worry about them much.
Their children will suffer for their occupancy of the womb of death.
You don’t have to, though – get out while you still can.
Now, open wide.” I felt better already.

Locked up in a sealed, squat jar
Leveling out the fragile playing fields
Which separate our stupid lives from your pre-natal bliss,
I gazed upon you in constant amazement,
As your watered and eager soul shook against the thick glass.

In the comfort of a forgotten cupboard,
You peer out daily through your half-shut pink eyes,
Watching the cogs of our legs grind up and down stairwells,
Oiled by fear and glistening in blind faith.
And, still, you make the glass rock and tilt with your Buddha laughs!

Quite a charming crew, you had there!
Magical bones and limp lizards
(Amongst other players) gathered together for science’s sake,
Only to be glimpsed at briefly in-between breaks.
Kids came and went, things were built - you never changed.

It was better that you never tasted life’s lost lustre.
Had you past through the wet, wobbly womb,
Only a few options would have awaited you –
Pet, chop suey or a pitiful pawn on Squealer’s chessboard.
You’re too sweet for all of that – stay bottled up.

Locked up in a sealed, squat jar
Levelling out the fragile playing fields
Which separate our stupid lives from your pre-natal bliss,
I gazed upon you in constant amazement,
As your watered and eager soul shook against the thick glass.

In the comfort of a forgotten cupboard,
You peer out daily through your half-shut pink eyes,
Watching the cogs of our legs grind up and down stairwells,
Oiled by fear and glistening in blind faith.
And, still, you make the glass rock and tilt with your Buddha laughs!

Quite a charming crew, you had there!
Magical bones and limp lizards
(Amongst other players) gathered together for science’s sake,
Only to be glimpsed at briefly in-between breaks.
Kids came and went, things were built - you never changed.

It was better that you never tasted life’s lost lustre.
Had you past through the wet, wobbly womb,
Only a few options would have awaited you –
Pet, chop suey or a pitiful pawn on Squealer’s chessboard.
You’re too sweet for all of that – stay bottled up.

Multi-coloured blocks are sprawled
Neatly across the floor where harvested kids play
With fidgety hands uncalled
To do much more than learn and pray.

Mmm…so good… peanut butter and jam
Beats cheeses and ham.
A little spring of Oros the throat does wet –
Perhaps a little too much – must go the toilet.

Enter, untuck, unzip.
Out shoots gold foam drip drip drip.
Paul Simon laughs at my harmless pecker,
His mate bursting into laughter like a lit *******.

Not knowing a thing of Cain and Abel,
I taught Paul the art of anger.
Didn’t you know? – humanity is but a fable!
Oh, come on now, don’t be a stranger.

Three lay fast asleep
Thirteen levels floating above
The surface where sorrowful screams were
Drowned out by wanton festivity,
Drunken ****** burning wet flames.

Numbered amongst the dormant,
I licked the thick, dark liquorice of night,
Summoning the sweet, milked serenity
That peels the stretched skin of insomnia.
Two fish reminisced of home islands.

Licquorice ice blocks now inked out into the milk glass,
Passage into the lush land
Of the half-dead was now made.
Over the heavenly white nimbus mass
Flew in the Ebony Queen in her floral pinafore.

Slight, steady slips of worn garments
Produced a passport to mocha *******
Perky and round as Brazil nuts,
Prodding and rubbing against banana nether,
A servile *** now grasped by curious hands.

The sting of liquorish now lifted,
I peered under the sheets,
Oblivious and curious as to how the milk
Spilled all over my lap.
What is this strange tingling burn?

First known outside of kin,
We played together whilst the world went by.
How hard must my heart heave for yours to cave in?
To this end indeed shall I try and try.

Not knowing how to tame thunderous heartbeats
Into ink that tars truth’s triumph,
I never wrote to you, but never stopped looking at your pleats,
Still hoping on the divine intervention of an amorous nymph.

Learning later of clichéd culture,
I bought you a rose and some chocolate.
Your rancid rejection verily did my heart rupture.
Why were you such a *****? – Okay, let’s drop it.

Townbound thereafter for many more years,
You made me watch you practice your heretic harlotry.
After working your way through the worst Neanderthals of my peers,
I realised that, for loving you, it is only myself that I pity.

Trying to fit into their ways in answer
To the imploding impulses that daily
That daily scatter and course violently through my veins
Like rats on a riotous rampage,
I revolted against the raging tide separating me from romance.

Armed only with an obstinate oar,
I waded and spun in absent, bereft waters,
Scrolling loveless letters lost in illusion,
Fondling friends and family like a fiery foe,
Offering only cheap chocolates as comforting condolences.

Riddled with rejection,
Two testing alternatives availed:
Find refuge in the land of the plutonic
Or challenge death alone on the choppy deluge.
Here’s to being the best friend a woman could ask for.