Number 12, Montague Terrace

Curse, bless, undress me now
Straddle our sin with vulvar skeins,
Final act, theatre-of-absurd play.

The Caretaker let sanity exit the house;
Cadence of her whispers, inexplicably French,
‘Mademoiselle, the Parisian rivers run filthy.’

Silly notes on edge of my desk
Then she pirouetted
                         with a naked third finger,
Secretaries guessed the rest.

We never stained the marital bed.
Warmth between her thighs, more
Sour on my tongue than husband’s whiskey.

His mediation candles filled a void
In that space, where the devil thrusts
And sensible men scream avoid.
If they sold memories, she’d make a killing.
 
Others flip-flopped down the pier,
She metronome-clicked in heels
Twilight lit the guttering flame of her red dress,
She pulled me under the decks of suffocation.

From depths, the hotel room window burnt
As wild fire in that other country,
Where we have committed and still do.
Brighton rocked, amyl nitrate surfed the walls,
The hands that rocked the cradle weren’t mine.

We were merely lust encased in plastic,
Two buckled chairs in a shabby café
Wannabe bohemian fuckbirds, never to take flight.
Nested, as delinquent orphans,
In the beds of A.N. others.

We should have just strolled through Regent’s Park
Hand in hand coterie, September symmetry…..
Talking about the weather and Alan Bennett.