He’s accomplished nothing,
his life a watered downs success,
a “skidder” was it?
His hands filled and emptied
in times unrelenting passing.
The smartest man in the room
-the pin his satin lapel sports.
A cut glass vernacular
affected by a crude Kingstonian drawl.
He amongst his Muji décor,
pours Oolong tea in a sole cup.
His community an artificial complex
continuing his saga of solitary emancipation.
In a carnal crash of two
eyes glazed
heated in sexual need.
We sought our delicious counter.
I approached you,
bearing words of no weight.
You were smiling, cheeks rosed,
eyes coyly flitting away.
Upheld by the bar and it medicines,
we back and forth, exchanged air,
hoping for a bold gale,
so we may sail afar.
And so,
surrounded by shoes fitting another,
in your bed, I wake.
An explorer of every pleasure’s niche,
my right arm humming, unconscious
from a precarious night’s pose.
We sip tea, and a second one too,
laying again exposed,
as we flick questions, discovering
passions and pursuits .
Clothed now in Hampstead, we part,
returning to our lives before this past morning,
our gaze locked, gasping reunion.
It should all go wrong,
we met in a place of false fronts and lying selves.
A glossy lieu, with suave social personas
titivated to an idealised reality.
Vollies of double ticked messages passed
and through their shallow blue
we were born to each other, rosey eyed
unaware of each other’s face.
We encountered in an entent fragile,
in a room sombre,
scented sweet with amber ale;
our social devotion weak and optional.
J.C. FitzDerick 