Rusty Broadspear (no login) from IP address 172.191.33.143
My bed’s ready.
Ponytail coming undone,
Personal 19th birthday treats, swing in a bag,
Toothpaste, tobacco and a stapler
(to hold me together)
Oh, and a gun.
Stepping out of Fountain Alley,
That holds the shop,
That sells staplers and stuff,
I walk behind and in step
With dreamage curves
And swinging wavy hair,
Cheeks in unison,
Waist for embrace,
Velvet sleeves tipped with lace,
A pace skippingly light
We walked in harmony.
My bed’s ready.
Her left my left,
Right right,
Swing left arm,
My left arm.
Crowded pavements,
Swept aside for the two of us.
She carried a bag, ‘Stevensons Lingerie.’
Red lace, fishnet tights,
Naked days,
Glorious nights. My Lady, her Man.
I’ll do what I can.
She walks so sweet
My birthday treat.
Cappuccino, pavement table,
Under sweeping grey skies.
Street and window lights
Flicker on.
Breezes whip.
Take a coffee,
I skip to an adjacent table,
Can’t quite see her face
But see wisps of blue,
She’s lit a cigarette.
I’ll call her Mandy.
Mandy swayed imperceptibly
To the rhythm
Of the crowds bustling by.
Traffic came to a halt.
I adjusted my hair,
With the help of neon,
In a car’s side window,
‘til the tail was in place.
Had a hauntingly sallow
But handsome face.
Thought I’d ask Mandy to join me
But this was my table,
My space.
She sipped cappuccino,
Too hot,
She crossed, uncrossed her legs.
My bed’s ready.
And those legs, superbly scuptured
To points unseen
But not unthought.
Birthday boy rolls a cigarette
Looks up
And spots a weak star
Amongst light pollution.
So much for a universe,
When the brightest star
Sits at the table next to me.
I stare at Mandy’s hair
See street smog rejected,
Leaving a sheen,
Protecting Mandy,
Some would say a dream.
Street walkers stare at Mandy,
Mental arms reach out,
Protect from the world,
Smoothly take her cigarette,
Kiss her lips lightly,
Hands cup her face,
I say, ‘Come with me’
‘You are the end of my day’
‘I am the end of your day’
‘You are my birthday.’
She smiles with luscious eyes,
Overgenerous, ‘take me’ lips,
At her table, we play.
My bed’s ready.
And so we fall in love,
To dulled café music
And street noise,
Flirting girls and rampant boys.
I leave my coffee, shove back my chair,
Walk with hands ready
To hold Mandy’s hair,
Whisper into her ear,
That this night
Has only just begun.
That I hold her dearly,
And that to her back ……….
I hold a gun.
My bed’s ready.
This message has been edited by WondersmithWest from IP address 205.206.129.48 on Nov 14, 2003 3:09 PM
Your gift for story-telling in rhyme absolutely astounds me sometimes, Rusty!!! Awesome piece of work, this one! You really should pursue publishing a volume of your story poems, my dear sir, you have a large gift to offer the world...
This is very good stuff! It kind of maintains a "detective story" pace throughout. You have always had a storyteller's tone to your poetry, a true gift. I agree with Alice, a master collection would make for a nice coffee table addition (not tucked away on a shelf neglected!).