by John Lawrence
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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