the stage

Make yourself up and paint the city red;

let go and show your inner shine.

The world awaits your radiance.

Glow.

This is your Cage.
With all its hidden bombs, wrapped in cotton wool.
Barbed and wired, barred and boarded:
This is your resting place.

This is your Home.

I am not my own,

just like you are not yours;

we are not individuals,

but a mass of living matter.

In the dark corner, I sit with my one candle – its light aflicker, my body aquiver.
Chapped hands hold the dimming flame – my breath abated, lest it go out.

I guess it’s just me

who can’t see the simplicity

of the situation.

I was too naive to see;

too gullible to read

the fine print below the words you told me.

or maybe fingers had been crossed,

instead of heart

and there was no needle for the eye.

and maybe it was all  just a lie.

no, I guess you did not paint me

because you never actually saw me -

just through me.

twenty-one birthday candles

stood upon this glorified dessert -

tiered and iced,

with enough bling to please the highest ranked of pimps.

those red-orange flames

seem brighter each year

with the added shine of one more light;

one more beacon;

one more mark for the past three hundred and sixty-five days.

and for that short moment -

after the song, but before the blow -

they dance.

“this is not the end.” they say.

 and I can’t help but smile at the thought of times to come.

“see you next year.” I reply.

6 a.m.

alarm rings. switch off and get up – no snooze.

kettle on, toast in.

mug. tea bag – brew for 3 minutes exactly.

2 level teaspoons of sugar and 2ml of milk. no more; no less.

butter toast. take it up.

1 p.m.

apply cover up. get dressed – long sleeve; turtle neck.

grab coat, get bus.

friday: steak night. 2 sides but no greens.

wash, slice, dice, boil, mash, simmer, grate, saute, fry.

medium rare.  serve dinner.

8 p.m.

wash dishes. scrub the floor – no speck left to be seen.

wash clothes, hang to dry.

hoover during adverts between Top Gear and MOTD.

bathe: 10 minutes. towel dry: dab carefully over sensitive skin.

give head. sleep.

live.

Head held high,

She walks

with the wind in her hair and

stilettos on.

She steps

on soft and fleshy ground -

the leather

on skin:

such blissful heated friction.

She controls

the man

with iron hand. He lets her

use him,

shove him

under the welcome mat

to this underground love of theirs.

He takes and takes
with his chubby grasping hands,
covered with my blood, sweat and tears,
and semen.
Yet he gives nothing in return
except the critical jabs, punches and kicks
at my ego;
at my mind and body.

This is not the love he promises.
This is not the love I wanted.

But this is the only love I have.

Say the words.

The ones that enchant;

The ones that seduce

The unknowing and unseen.

Cast your spell.

The one that allures;

The one that captures

My heart and soul completely.

Brew the potion.

The one that’s for you;

The one that rescues

Your life from the brink of Death

And come back to me.

She is the picture.

She is the film – the canvas.

She is the camera.

She is the flash,

of dazzling, illuminating light

that fills the room.

She is the button.

She is the lens.

She is the photographer

and the model -

the inspiration and the inspired;

the artist and her muse;

the creator and her masterpiece.

She is the picture.

And the world around it.

She is the picture.

She is the world.

maybe today.

maybe tomorrow.

maybe next weekend.

maybe the month after.

maybe the following year.

maybe in a decade.

maybe never.

maybe.

feed me.

feed me more.

fill me with lashings of your Love,

topped with the essence of your Soul,

served with generous portions of Passion

and Companionship. 

feed me.

quench my thirst.

top my glass with the liquor of Lust,

stirred with just a dash of Loyalty,

chased with a squeeze of Infidelity

and a lick of Delight.