Your tired bedroom eyes on the TV screen
Are the origin of desire;
Kohl-rimmed, jaded, staring out
From a perfect face balanced on a swan-like wrist.
I pull the pint away from my dry lips
And drink in something stronger for a split-second,
The windows of your soul stoking something in me
Close to madness. Emily, I love you
More than Brian Wilson.
G.W.
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
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A revelatory poem from our teaching friend.
ReplyDeleteI'm taken aback by this poem from Grahame - a first, I think?
ReplyDeleteI'm feeling jealous - I wish I had written this steamy number!
ReplyDeleteTK.
He's laying down a challenge. Over to you Jim.
ReplyDeleteBut you do love Brian really.
ReplyDeleteBathos, baby, bathos.
ReplyDeleteHave you seen this bit of stuff he's slobbering over in verse? She's no Bruni. More of a Bruno.
ReplyDeleteShades of Sybil. Where's Joanne Woodward when you need her?
ReplyDeleteA highly erotic poem by a highly charged man.
ReplyDeleteSlow day at work? No chip fat fires to report on?
ReplyDelete