some poems are prudes; they make you work for it, and some are sluts; they just fall into your lap.
Yes. This is true. But I've never been good at the chase, never been good at that slow two person strip tease, peeling away the layers of someone's propriety and bartering huge amounts of effort for every inch closer to congress. Why?
I'm a lazy fucktard, that's why. Slap of aftershave, nice shirt and if you don't like me then I can't be bothered changing it. And lately... lately the poems just aren't biting.
Sorry. I've mixed my metaphors. Bad TK.
This is pure fantasy, no one has ever given me a vegetable as a gift. But I dreamed it, and that makes it really rather real.
Artichoke
Six months:
Kisses, small favours,
I receive a small gift
No rock candy or gummy sweet
Nor even a sly onion to mock my tastes
But an artichoke heart, freshly steamed
Complete with fleshy inner leaves to jut out of it
Shades of green-grey
I thought it obscene
Just as good a trepanned scalp
a garlic bulb suspended in honey
or the pelt of next door’s Siamese.
It was given to me
with a sick grin.
And I smiled, taking
this full fleshed
pendulous thing
Right into me.
Will post more often etc etc. You all know this song and dance by now. It's like a sickness, like the way people go and see Mamma Mia countless times. Maybe I should charge £30 pounds per read. What d'you think?
