poetry

Nudge me no more (it ain’t nice …)

He used to love the way she touched him without

really touching him: like when you see

a drop-dead beautiful to-die-for woman from

an incredible afar, and her enigmatic smile and her dark red lips

and her sips of sex slipped beneath laced-up skirt, swishing

lightly below awfully silken blouse, ready to be undone in some

lucky darkened room or other … and all of these things

like collected lockets of love, he used to love so much about her.

But now when she nudges him, it ain’t nice at all.

Now when she nudges him, it’s purely a means to get him to do

her something she refuses to take ownership for: turn up the

heating or turn down the volume or turn off the fan or

just fuck yourself solo because you make me quite ill,

only no one could ever ever take ownership for such a

terrible thought as this.

And if there was one thing that really pissed him out his

trolley, it was people who took it upon themselves to volley through

air and wind and tight breeze a teasing nudging of managing

behaviours: “If you want me to do something, just say it to my

fucking face!  And then,” he would respond, “I can actually

choose who to say no to …”

But the universe – his universe – really wasn’t that way, and rather

than peopled by people who might visibly fuck him alive, it was peopled by

people who refused to show their faces, and instead of sexy glances that

might glance off his soul, the only thing he ever knew

was the people who peopled his universe and flatly refused to hate him

in full view of the man he was and the man he’d become

and the man he now rejected he had to revert to.

And if freedom was to be a solitary confinement in a wider world

of loneliness, let freedom commence in its singular way: only do show

your faces, do accept your blame, do recognise that fame

is no guarantor of happiness any more.

And all he ever wanted to be was a man at least his children might

be proud of … a man they could admire some day for the

grander things he might once have done

in some different time.

And whilst he realised by now that his children were grand, his

saddest saddest thought lay in the lap of his spouse:

when life had called him to be a lion of sorts, a mouse is all he had

roared and scurried: and he knew he had failed her, and she was

no longer the woman she might one day have become,

if another life had ridden by and flitted by and allowed him the

pride and enjoyment of being the man

which he knew he could now never be, were he to remain in her lap.

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2 thoughts on “Nudge me no more (it ain’t nice …)

    • Thanks Tony. I do sincerely believe that the best judge of any creative work will be the peers and practitioners who work in the same field. They have the distance and objectivity to sift wheat from chaff. I really appreciate you’re homing in on wheat: myself, I’m generally too close and involved to know. And that’s the truth. 🙂

      Like

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