Tipsy poetry challenge I’m blowing the lid off this ladylike charade
It appears I’m unqualified in the art of getting laid My voice may be soft but my words are too bold downscale my profanity and I might pass for female I like an ale over a cocktail ‘Half a pint for the lady’ is just an old wives tale I want a full pint please with the froth on top too holding it with two hands isn’t such a taboo At least my nails are painted on those pint encasing fingers detracting from the fact my eyebrows look like caterpillars No plucking here, gents Have you tried to use tweezers? They aren’t exactly one of life’s palatable pleasers I haven’t worn a thong since 2005 and my lingerie doesn’t match in colour or style In fact, Elmo features on my favourite knickers his happy blue face covers my private quiver And what exactly is contouring? Obscuring my face to become more alluring then wiping it all off and leaving the house fresh faced I don’t like lace I don’t much like silk either I live half in my shell and half out like in indecisive turtle stuck on this roundabout of trying to be comfortable so I ditch the heels and the feels and all the girlie emotions that make me fucking squeal I like intelligence not abs I run 5000 metres almost every day not to look good for you but so I can eat cheesecake whenever I darn well want to My creamy white skin brims with soft edges my bosom too large befitting the wenches of time gone by in a fluttering of senses I’m delicate and fucked up and needy and horny I display my aggression loudly forlornly Did you know that female sloths scream when they want to have sex? Yep, me too. I won’t cross my legs and I won’t sit up straight. I permanently wear this messy bed head and this unattractive face But I’m me, from my head to my child sized feet a veritable little storm, so far so uncomplete.
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There is something painfully pleasurable about liking someone that doesn’t like you; the fantasy offering so much more than reality could ever indulge. The beautiful imagery of you wanting me, all of me, in all the ways one can possibly want another, without the fear and the rejection and the all consuming anxiety.
Being able to close my eyes and imagine the pressure of your hand on the small of my back, the rush of warm air on my neck as you lean in close to whisper naughtiness in my ear, the grip of our intertwined fingers as you pull me somewhere dark and private before our lips meet in hungry need, the salty tears as you pull my hair back and push further into me, the slippery softness of our skin as we bathe together in blissful silence. And I can dictate exactly how this titillating little scene plays out, as my fingers trail my body. Or are they yours? Strange self flattery consumes my touch and my need increases in perfect harmony with the imaginary need I have placed upon you. Because when I close my eyes, I can picture you looking at me, a smile on your handsome face, and a glimmer of mischief in your eyes, as you ask me to touch myself. And so I do. Just for you. So loudly that the people in the bus stop across the street know your name. But I can no longer keep you prisoner within my mind, no longer steal you away for a beautiful foray into my imagination. I am a perpetual rain throughout your day and all I wish is for you to part with your endless winter and feel the warmth of Spring lust upon your face. I'm blowing you a kiss
that will travel through the wind like a songbird that has fallen only to regain the sky swirling over smoking chimneys soaring through the sunsets spinning down, down, down like leaves caught in a storm Watch it float through your open window and land upon your shoe clambering up your leg scrambling across your spine and hiding behind your ear with a shy nervousness And just when you're about to go to sleep feel it gently bite your neck and whisper I like you You held me in the palm of your hand
with such protective bliss as though you were the river which effortlessly carried the leaf hypnotising my every action with a love so pure that it bloomed like a thousand tulips a rainbow of colours capturing the beauty of your guiding smile. And I utterly love you. Not just today, but every day. I remember being little
when running made me free never staying in a straight line all momentum evading me And it felt like I had wings so I ran pretending to fly as the clouds above me parted and I became a butterfly As I tripped and fell I realised that my wings weren’t dependable but my legs, my feet, my heart security, more preferable So I ran Every day Through the months and years and tears as life became less bonhomie hypothetical monstrosity with aching breasts and aching knees a deeply imbalanced psychology With tight lungs and tighter shorts an unstoppable little tremble as I reach towards that butterfly so beautiful. I stumble. I don’t like the fact that you try and chat me up every morning whilst my labrador delicately shits at the base of the prickly bush,
the third one as you leave the meadow and turn into the lane, right next to the bench where you sit and wait And no, I don’t look beautiful; I’m wearing yesterday’s makeup and I’m fairly sure that a flock of wood pigeons have taken residence within the confines of my messy bun Babe Urgh, really? Formalities aside Let’s get down to business, huh? My distance isn’t coy My distance is in fact in perfect correlation with my hatred for mankind pre-7am And, apart from that one time you brought me coffee, I’ve never truly looked forward to seeing your plump belly squeezed inside your Barbour jacket But as I roll around on the floor giving fusses to your beagle, I know that I won’t ask you to leave me alone. The first time I met you, you pulled at my long hair and called me adorably small as you winked and flashed me the cheekiest grin, and it felt as though a thousand bees had stung my chest leaving behind an ache that was as pleasurable as a rainbow on a rainy day.
And my mum warned me that I’d never fall in love as deeply as I would the first time. But as you made my cheeks blush and my heart beat faster, as I blossomed right before your beautiful eyes, you became the first boy to teach me that I wasn’t good enough to be anyone’s first choice. And as the clouds cry and my emotions spill all over my barstool, the ropes tangling themselves inside my stomach, I remember you. I plunge the words into the flames
the flesh on my fingers aching from the closeness of the heat as I watch the typed script coil and brighten like a thousand starry nights and I feel a sudden sense of sublime sadness a depressing euphoria as my efforts disintegrate and a tiny little ember threatens to burn my house down. His head is down
as he studiously scribbles with his chewed pen with determined alacrity. I want to gently brush away his floppy, unwashed hair cloaking his face so that I can see the words leave his flesh and bone but no. Boundaries. Can not touch, can not hug, can not provide physical comfort in any way as though it would scorch our skin and leave us forever scarred. Boundaries. So I imagine the words that he has chosen.. rejected alone high stupid worthless and I try to capture them before they hit the page so that I can absorb them like a thick, damp cloth collecting tears from the sea but it’s 9.30pm and he looks up at me with his teenage grin before fist bumping my knuckles and uttering ‘see you next week, Miss’ as his lolloping skeleton leaves the building and I stand at the window and squint into the darkness as I watch his feet move towards the dimly lit car park, his fingers reaching towards a car window as a faceless shape hands him a small package. A lone tear glides down my cheek as I turn away to retrieve his poem.. “Miss says I’m special Miss says I’m kind the drugs ain’t helping tho The drugs is makin me blind” And as the lone tear multiplies and a sound escapes my throat like a distressed child, I stop reading. But there is hope. Always, hope. The only spooning I've done lately is with icecream
until the bitter cold drowns out my thought stream Watching Lord Of The Onion Rings with bated breath from the deep dark depths of my impending death Casserole for my wounded soul. My heart melting like a strong cheddar cheese bubbling with emotional need Toast and tea to nourish me with three heaped teaspoons of positivity A little helping of blueberry pie why? to exude my social butterfly to disqualify the lack of beautify- ing possibility The tranquility of chopping and boiling and flutter as I sauté my esteem in a little hot butter Carbs may well be my soulmate but what does it matter when I'll throw it back in the lavatory later. |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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