Friday, May 21, 2010

The Disasters of Desire


There's something like time in the cupboard. An elephant stands alone. I dream of pork chops, and you, there, in the tinned goods aisle. I have seen the naked soles of your feet and kissed your elbows. My underpants know, only too well, the disasters of desire. I am, and forever will be, your eggcup.

Take my hand and we will run through shopping malls together, laughing at improbable chins and Christmas present knitwear. We will kiss in front of the stone-clad faces behind the make-up counters. We will turn them back into statues.

Together we will go far from these places where we exist only beneath brand names, and head out into the green of this once pleasant land. Go to a place that doesn't need a logo, that doesn't need either of us to buy into its myths and dreams.

You, you will be there, nude on a pogo-stick, reciting the Seven Pillars of Software Engineering, while I try to place a single chocolate-coated raisin into your navel. You could so easily be the one, that one woman who knows the secret of how to arouse a man whilst wearing only green wellies.

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