Is a burning ball of Neolithic needs. Smoulders
then ignites, every Friday night.
Watching her readiness, her steadiness, her building desire
casts a white-hot heat within his breast. A volcano of
turmoil that rages in his heart; staggers his mind,
and reels his senses; till his lenses and iris’ weep for release.
With the closing of the door, enters purgatory. Behind her.
She prowls the bars like a she-tiger, surrounded by her pack.
Casting an indomitable, desirous figure
for all to fall for. To worship. To want. And
she plays her part well. Will she? Won’t she?
Who can ever tell? Including herself…
Hope her will is good.
William, meanwhile, ever faithful, ever fearful;
never knows how or when she’ll return to harbour.
Or if she will…Will.
The aeons of the small hours
creep by; greying his hair, lining his face. Charming,
yearning, anxious as the hell he sits in, remains puppy-dog loyal
in his place. Fear etched upon his face and heart.
Watching every light that slides along the ceiling
until…at last. One stops.
Heart leaps to mouth as he hears her getting out.
Engine fires. Bitter words leap to mouth at the key rattling in
the lock. Die on the lips at her pissed-up, messed-up smile
that mocks his existence in her post-pub world.
Weary, war-ravaged silence reigns, as, in vain, he tries
to communicate once again; to no avail.
No words. No words. If they could
only speak. And so to sleep. Perchance
to dream of the dream they had. Was it
always this bad?
She awakens post-meridian, sprawled
across the middle of theirking-sized again. Her hangover
of the same proportions; emerald eyes encrusted; mouth
a gash of crimson slashed porcelain across fastidious flesh;
tresses a mess. Tearful, weary, bleary-minded, ever fearful
of the Truth - of pigeons coming home to roost.
Half the rent gone; the gin-sink oblivion of alco-pops
gurgling in her guts. Sound and vision driving her nuts.
Tentatively stretches out a tentacle to ensnare his humbled heart
and wallet yet again. Riding his train. Satiates her
primeval fire to be desired by all men. At all times. As Eve;
libidinous and lurid; as Cleo; sensuous and smooth. Or Pandora.
Never fails to lift the lid on that box of possibility;
And so he gets six more days of semi-peace; of work that
will not cease; a treaty of time where only life’s mime
for money exists:- ’till the weekend
comes around again. Till…
Yet he loves her. Still.