It was like one of these Netflix shows

My camera face panning up thru the crowd
At your shoulder you looking back into the lens
The dusk light the pause that flows into
This off license where we buy pizza and sweet
Chilli sauce talking about postcards and flows
Through the phantom crowds to the grey door
That’s yours the faded stickers and peeling and
We’re walking up I think of your landing
I only remember your landing from leaving
Tomorrow in the bright and licking my lips
Like the stairway to the toilets in a new bar
Concrete and stark lying happiness the story
Of progress this is relevant to the show
And when we get into the flat it is muted
Colourful and old and small comfortable hallways
The housemate reassuring and exciting either
Brown hair or blonde the colours of extras
It’s an artistic flat a Shoreditch flat like
A Manhattan Flat or Greenwich flat or
Whatever it’s a film set flat that looks wonderful
To me and your room the orange wall and
Rough carpet I take off my shoes and shirt and
Fancy the bathroom is greenish and aqua
I settle in there for cleaning for pause this is
The time in the show for a monologue but
I look into the mirror and say nothing and pull
Up my foreskin and use the scented soap
And I wash my hole with the shower on full
But it will still leave shit on you and maybe
The camera goes to this, but it is less embarrassing
When it happens for final and you disappear with the
Latex like a spent vegetable, like an onion skin
And on the side of your bed this model seal
With the lube in it before I know what lube is
How vaginas make it how anuses are dry
I am sitting on your penis and the camera is on
Your bored face and you push up into the camera
Stand and the viewers can feel you and behind
Your beard you’re a beard and a chest and a bird
But we also eat pizza and watch cartoons you
Show me your poem you speak to your housemate
As I read and I am too busy being your bitch to
Read and you are too busy treating me like a person
To waste time on this bitch and we watch cartoons
Talk about your singing fish and the window is open
The cold morning cleansing me from here so
I hold you close and see things from your poem
The headlights the cars passing the crowds outside
As the camera pans out and the next
Scene comes too soon.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Powered by WordPress.com.
%d bloggers like this: