Sunday, 14 September 2014
Her 64th boyfriend
Congratulations Marcia Miller for making the pledge that got me down to 99 pledges required - you now have a character named after you in "Ex". All I am going to say is, I hope you don't like ant eaters. Marcia has become pledge obsessed and lets me know whenever we gain another percentage point. Quite simply, her support has kept me going whenever I have flagged. She is currently in Cape Cod with her husband Michael and their dog and we wish we were with them having breakfasts of cream cheese and smoked salmon bagels, sitting in a dug out on the beach, wrapped in blankets reading or complaining that the solar storm was a wash out.
Now, although this won poem of the week on ABCtales quite recently and has had more than 865 reads I have debated whether to post this to my wonderful Unbound supporters because it is a little bit on the graphic side but I am posting it because I am very proud of it. This is a work of fiction - it is NOT about me. The man in the poem looks like a young George Clooney, as he was in ER so please have that as your mental image before you read this and for those of you who do not like adult writing do not read on.
Her 64th boyfriend
I was her 64th boyfriend
they came and went
like heads of corn in a thresher
terrifying in their insignificance
so now she was keeping count
She lived on 45 West 139th Street
In Harlem
and slept with a loaded Webley
Mark IV revolver
under her pillow
she shared her home
with a blind cat
called Fury Goddess of Vengeance
which suffered from a highly contagious skin disorder
and an albino rabbit
with blue plastic wheels
instead of hind legs
At 5.23am
on our first morning together
we listened to
Chet Baker At the Forum
and lay in bed
chain smoking Winston Blue's
and eating re heated churros
dipped in mucha-mucha spread
Later we knelt on her bed
staring through the frost monkeys
on the inside of her
bedroom window
at the gang boys
on the broad walk below
strutting and preening like fireflies
When we fucked
it was frenzied
our half filled cups of
jagged Ethiopian coffee
jousting on her bedside table
and afterwards she held my face between fingers
which were twice her age
and I watched the
megallanic clouds
circle her eyes
in a parabola
of interstellar dust
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