the stage

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.

so tired, so tired.

the world is all a burden

put upon my weary eyes

which long to draw the curtain.

so tired, so tired.

the light is all but welcome

to sing me of new morning

’cause my mind’s far beyond fathom.

sleep.

see through me;

see past me;

see nothing of me.

always in the shadow of someone more divine.

always in the back;

always in the crowd -

the camellia with no scent

to add to the bouquet.

know not of my name.

know not my face.

know only the blinding light beside me.

Just one word need be said

before your world begins to crumble

and all that you thought you had

begins to fade and tumble.

Just two small syllables

can turn your world around -

inside out, and upside down.

asphyxiated and drowned.

But nothing means more

than this that leaves my lips.

And nothing will hurt more

than this that parts my lips.

“Sorry.”