57

by John Lawrence

Email: john.lawrence@blueyonder.co.uk

 

 

There is no feeling of love,

no feeling of hate,

just somewhere wedged between.

It lurks between gripe and lust.

If I had to number it I'd give it Fifty Seven –

where true love is a Hundred

and repulsion sits at One.

 

When you kiss my lips,

I await the kick and the rush,

the love brushing round my ankles, 

fickle as a hungry cat.

 

Your tongue flicks out, reptilian,

as that feeling, that thrust,

that spasm of lust crinkles and vanishes,

cellophane in a flame.

 

Your barbs, your prickles

spike, draw blood, as we talk about love

with a storytime lilt, lies shifting and sliding

like slick leather soles on ice.

 

Then the letterbox clatters

as the front door slams

you are gone

 

and the numbers are brawling inside my head

and the numbers reel down

click-click-clacking a station information board

heading south as fast as an outrageous thought,

kicking up dust

 

and the numbers still brawl

inside my head

lurking somewhere between gripe and lust.

 

 

©2005 John Lawrence

 

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