The Mistake

"It was the Nachos that did it."
I scrawl thoughtlessly into the grey paper,
While The Cockroach serves to brainwash us all
for the millionth time.

It wasn't really the Nachos.
It was the thoughts of you -
It was the sound of your voice -
It was remembering St Swithin's Day
that did it.

The realisation of what I am doing
brings me to a halt.
Scratching out each line, I laugh
And shake my head in disgust -
Or shame - or something like that, anyway.

Then, I leaf through the soppy rubbish
That I once fooled myself into thinking
was a collection of romantic tributes
To your handsome face.
What is it to me now?
Crap.
Or maybe it isn't - I'm not sure.

I sigh and turn back to the grill,
for some reason thinking still
of
The Mistake.
Or was it?

Oh, sod it.

This is as good as I'll get -

Me, the grill, and The bloody Cockroach.
Play it again, Sam...

Cured

Why bother
with a cocktail of remedies
when I have you?

Your face and voice
alone
for me, can cure a multitude of ills -
your face and voice
alone,
for me, are far better than any pills.

I started this morning tired, cold, sore -
stalked by a rattling cough and
a raging fire in my throat -
then I saw you,
and I was cured.

Open To Interpretation

At first, unsure and unaware
of who I was dealing with,
I felt uncomfortable to receive
your sultry, longing stare.

But as I got to know you,
every single little thing
you said or did
would move me,
would confuse me,
would leave me wanting you to use me.

It's wrong, of course - you're still so young,
and I am, shall we say, experienced?
Not that this stopped me wanting you -
why sacrifice logic for fun?!

So, throwing caution to the wind
one drunken night, we kissed
and all at once I was young again,
eyes clouded with cliché love-mist!
And you, so kind and gentlemanly,
dismissed my apologies
and smiled that crooked, dazzling smile
that makes me weak at the knees.

Age is just a number, so they say -
I can vouch for that.
For we are just as perfect as any
same-aged, young love-match.

You make me forget my grief and all
the hurt I felt in the past
with each look from those soulful eyes,
each kiss that makes my heart beat fast.
With you, I now can love again - a thing I thought I'd lost -
I can find my senses once again,
and be content to fall.

And as we continue on
our journey of discovery,
our journey of life and love -
in each exotic location,
let it be known that I am
Open to Interpretation.

Five Years

It has been five years
since I first saw that face of yours.
Five years since these dreams of you began.
Now, I'm thinking of you, dreaming of you
as often as I can.

Though at the time I was numb
to the sheer enormity
and intensity of my feelings,
and pushed them to the back of my mind,
Five years on, I look back, fond
at my naive conformity.

Five years on, I'm freely wanting,
needing,
loving you.
I am not ashamed to let others know
of all the things I'd do
for you.

It has been five years
since that velvet voice
corrupted my ears.
Five years since I lay awake
each night,
paralysed with fear
of forgetting,
of losing you.
But five years on, I know my place
and yours,
my choice,
and my only forever.

Five years on, I know how many times I've tried to leave you.
And five years on, I know that's something I could never do -
because
Five years on, I know I am
unchangeably
in love with you.

Sweet Fantasy

I’ve seen your face before
oh so many times.
And ever since the very first glimpse,
I can’t get you off my mind.
I wonder, when I see you,
if you can see me too?
Through the crowds, I want to scream out loud
my love for you.

But you don’t know me,
so we can never be.
All that’s left is to dream at night
Of you and me - my own sweet fantasy.

We all take different walks in life,
but one day our paths all cross.
I’ll hope to see your face again
one day in London rain.
I thought last night you called for me
So I screamed back your name -
My imagination fooled me
‘cause your reply never came.

‘Cause you don’t know me,
so we can never be.
All that’s left is to dream at night
Of you and me - my own sweet fantasy.

These photographs of you
are all I have to ease the pain.
So I’ll stare at them ‘till my eyes bleed,
and I feel you here again.
I’ll wait for you like a woman possessed,
concoct visions of your caress -
But since I realised you can’t love me,
My whole life’s been a mess.

‘Cause you don’t know me,
so we can never be.
All that’s left is to dream at night
Of you and me - my own sweet fantasy.

No, you don’t know me,
so we won’t ever be.
So all I do is dream at night
Of you and me - my own sweet fantasy.

The Drought

Of late, many things remind me of you.
But the memories don’t seem to want to stay -
It is as though I’m subconsciously pushing you away.

The endless photographs I see of you
doing inconsequential things
have no effect on me.
No matter what is said, no matter what I do,
I cannot think of you for long -
oh, surely this is wrong!

Before, my dreams were plagued by you;
But now I’m plagued by sleepless nights
in which I try to see you, try to hear you -
In which I wake in tears, surrounded by my greatest fear -
That you have left me.

Perhaps I’m acting so very strange
because right now you are far away.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder -
You left, and now I have no heart of which to speak;
Your absence has made me weak.
When you are near, my heart is here -
And only then am I strong.

For now, I’ll try to keep you in my thoughts;
I will lock away that velvet voice,
those piercing eyes of yours,
and save them for a rainy day,
when my sore heart implores
you to return, lest I go mad.

And so, for now, I wait.
And so, for now, I’ll hate
the misery that falls on me;
Without you, in this drought.

Euston Station, 7:45pm

Commuters jostle their way
around Euston Station tonight.
It’s Halloween, but the masked youths
Shouting “Trick or treat?!” and snatching a bottle of Evian
Don’t put the barista in a fright.

I am sitting,
Fingers frantically working my phone,
Mind racing and aware of the time.
My focus is broken by a tall, fat man
rooting through the café bins -
He picks up someone’s used coffee cup
Knocking back the beige liquid,
Then, without so much as a scan of the room - he pockets the cup.

A mother is chastising her child in Polish
over by the information desk
While the father glances round and laughs
nervously.
Nearby, a woman is lying half-asleep on her suitcase,
Eyes moving like shutters, clearly filled with unrest.

Over the loudspeaker, a male voice demands
"Could Rufus Nesbit please come to Station Reception, your grandma is waiting for you".

I have to hide my laughter behind my hands.


My train is about to come in,
So I travel to the platform, and on my way
I notice the vacant expressions on the people I pass,
Like zombies waiting to attack en masse.
I stand at the platform, the train comes in -
Boarding my carriage, my mind waves goodbye
To Euston Station at 7:45pm.

Pretend

“Ladies, please stand behind the rope!” The red-faced steward cries.
Behind him, gaggles of screaming girls fan their faces,
tears streaming from their eyes.

The steward speaks into his headset, signalling
the beginning.
The girls are rooted in their places,
poised in frantic elegance;
Waiting.

The curtain falls, and the girls rush forward in their hordes;
Crying, screaming, groping - as he stands, hands in pockets,
grinning from ear to ear -
And onlookers sigh, and roll their eyes -
and make their way around Madame Tussaud’s.