Dancing with the idea I might like
That tousled fro
Those 121s that drip with laughter
And those pre-sleep minutes doused in the hot flames of a fantasy.
Distressed by the thought
Of upsetting you
Of playing second fiddle
To another
Of watching you sidle up, delicate hand outstretched
Helpful words cascading from your tongue.
Playing with the idea of biting your earlobes
Jaded, sepia hours spent in an apartment
You cooking, innocent
Turning dangerous, unable to bear the air ablaze with passion.
Crooked arms and tangled feet and bodies slapped together like ham onto bread
Wet from the heat, hot wafts of wheat.
Smile sticky with sweetness
And good intentions
That curtsy before me in every catch up.
Category: millennial
European weekend
We rolled into a Spanish town, filled with green crested hills and fluffy neighbourhoods
And I’m thinking about work and life and commitments
I’m pondering the flaky freelance mode de vie,
I’m wondering if it’ll stunt me socially
And make me boring and broke.
As the flesh coloured figures roll past the window panes
And the platforms dash in a blur of brushed aluminium
Thoughts ricochet off my synapses
And flood my mind with what ifs and how to’s
The world seems so scary
My path seems so bumpy
When I make good with my brain
That’s when it’ll all piece together.
18 vs 25
At 18 I lusted after boys with big hair
And curly tendrils everywhere
Like Chase from Zoey 101
Or the late but great Jim Morrison.
We got dolled up and went to clubs
Were hit on by married men in pubs
Who wanted nothing more than to grope our bums
And pray we didn’t tell our mums.
At 25 I don’t kiss in clubs
Or humour middle-aged men in pubs
I’d much rather sit and have a natter
With fresh-faced friends who actually matter.
At 25 I don’t look around the room
Desperately searching for my potential groom
Instead I shuffle those size 6 feet
And shun the stares for a monstrous beat.
At 25 I’m paying London prices
But the student union booze-fest still entices
50p shots with £2 doubles
Always made for some serious trouble.
At 18 I puked against the Sobar wall
Was told to leave and stop being a fool
Took my weary frame off to bed
Woke up to a head as heavy as lead.
At 25 I guzzle water like no tomorrow
In a bid to minimise next day’s sorrow
Memories of my 20th still make me shiver
As I downed neon shots and messed up my liver.
talking to my pillow. 