2)

The walls are a kind of orange, that colour that

always looks better than it sounds. Covered in

Indian throws, with a few of my own sketches,

framed for importance, and a print of a poet

smoking pot somewhere in the sixties. And there’s

this block print of Leighton Jones ‘Artful Dodger’,

so perfect with its look that it’ll  fit in nowhere,

scruffy painting and a pipe-smoking kid. I’d take

him in. But she’s more serious this time. And I’m

more vulnerable – weaker is the word – than

ever. Totally alone, I know these walls, just some

Joni to change the scene, and she sighs too. Too much.

It’s a great sweaty time with no love but lust proving

that the flavour of each moment can be as sweet or

sour as you wish it. She was newer than me, riding

from the top and looking at me with eyes displaying

she was somewhere else, dancing with me under

moonlight, screwing in some alleyway, thrusting

her bum in some field. No romance here, just some

stolen moment to later forget, just smells of each other,

a kind of perfumed sex, but lovely tonight.