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Next Best Thing

 

It was perpetual summer, richly fragrant with potent mary jane and pungent patchouli.

I was sixteen.

She was two years older – so far out of my league that she should never have even noticed me.  And yet somehow I was there, amazed at my good fortune, hopelessly in love with her, and in complete awe of her friends. They were ultra hip, achingly cool and comfortably rich.

Whereas I owned the Levi’s I stood up in, a couple of faded shirts, a borrowed guitar, and my notebook of spidery poems.

There was a gentle candle-lit dinner party in one of daddy’s spare houses.  The room was beamed and flagged and full of style and music. I was a pretty boy – an amusing novelty to wear like a trinket on her arm.  Although I never realised that at the time.

The conversation turned to views of what a perfect partner might be.  She waxed lyrical about what would excite her.  Intelligence, a sense of humour, a slim, slender physique, a writer, a revolutionary, a mass of golden curls, eyes that could both command and romance.  I swear she was looking at me. I thought she was talking about me.  I was young, proud and special.  I had smoked perhaps a little too much dope.

‘Thank you.’ I said, when she had finished.

There was moment of stunned silence before the table erupted with mocking laughter.  She reached across and patted my hand.

‘Oh, darling boy.  Did you think I meant you?’

I lowered my eyes, blushing fiercely, almost tearful at my own stupidity.

‘Don’t worry,’ she consoled me. ‘you are the next best thing.’  There was more laughter.

It was an instructive and humbling moment that I promised myself I would never forget.

It still lives on, all these years later, in my e-mail address:

nextthing@_________

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I first posted this in 2012 writing about a memory of my teens that never faded. I suspect we have all had moments like these in our formative years

Photograph by Matt Eaton

 
2 Comments

Posted by on February 11, 2019 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Next Best Thing

 

It was perpetual summer, richly fragrant with potent mary jane and pungent patchouli.

I was sixteen.

She was two years older – so far out of my league that she should never have even noticed me.  And yet somehow I was there, amazed at my good fortune, hopelessly in love with her, and in complete awe of her friends. They were ultra hip, achingly cool and comfortably rich.

Whereas I owned the Levi’s I stood up in, a couple of faded shirts, a borrowed guitar, and my notebook of spidery poems.

There was a gentle candle-lit dinner party in one of daddy’s spare houses.  The room was beamed and flagged and full of style and music. I was a pretty boy – an amusing novelty to wear like a trinket on her arm.  Although I never realised that at the time.

The conversation turned to views of what a perfect partner might be.  She waxed lyrical about what would excite her.  Intelligence, a sense of humour, a slim, slender physique, a writer, a revolutionary, a mass of golden curls, eyes that could both command and romance.  I swear she was looking at me. I thought she was talking about me.  I was young, proud and special.  I had smoked perhaps a little too much dope.

‘Thank you.’ I said, when she had finished.

There was moment of stunned silence before the table erupted with mocking laughter.  She reached across and patted my hand.

‘Oh, darling boy.  Did you think I meant you?’

I lowered my eyes, blushing fiercely, almost tearful at my own stupidity.

‘Don’t worry,’ she consoled me. ‘you are the next best thing.’  There was more laughter.

It was an instructive and humbling moment that I promised myself I would never forget.

It still lives on, all these years later, in my e-mail address:

nextthing@_________

.

.

As I continue to go through pieces of my past, I found this. I first posted it in 2012 writing about a memory of my teens that never faded. I suspect we have all had moments like these in our formative years.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph by Matt Eaton

 
6 Comments

Posted by on February 5, 2018 in Lovers Past, Still Life

 

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Back home

 

‘I think it is time,’

he smiled sadly

collecting up

his battered notebook

black pen

dark cloak

sad guitar

and half empty bottle,

and kissing her forehead,

‘for me to go

back home.’

.

.

© the author writing a Romantic Dominant

Photograph of Johnny Cash. Source unknown.

 

 
10 Comments

Posted by on April 28, 2017 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Thursday’s Child (once more, with audio)

 

Art by Ines Rehberg. Model Megan Szczypka

 

Thursday’s Child

.

Well, I hear that you have been travelling

with a friend in an open-topped car,

and you revealed to him all your secrets

and you showed him your operation scar.

You painted his name on your mirror

with a lipstick glossy and red,

and you posed for imaginary photos

in the warm nest of your unmade bed..

.

He sent you a handful of spidery poems

that you captured with pins on your wall,

I read them when you were sleeping

and they seemed to make no sense at all.

Yet you recite them when you are bathing,

trailing your sharp nails over your thighs,

and you emerge mysterious and glowing

with a wild, vacant look in your eyes.

.

There is more to this than just attraction

or some strange late night trick of the light,

and you shouldn’t be reading his memoirs

in a dress that is so transparent and white.

And I fear that you’ve sensed a religion

in the casual, brave cut of his coat,

as you kneel so sublime at his alter

clasping tight all the letters he wrote.

.

Now I hear you’ve constructed a bonfire

from the things your sweet mother knew best,

and that you comfort his wide-eyed supporters

who sleep with their hands on your breasts.

But you never once give them the shelter

they crave when the light has grown dim,

and while you suffer the press of their bodies

you save all your mystery for him.

.

I miss you when the round moon is sailing,

I feel your caress in the turn of the tide.

it is as constant as the ache in my shoulders,

It is the sharp stabbing pain of your knife.

And oh, how I hunger for you to be near me,

your peeled clothes like a sea at your feet,

your pale skin tasting of salt and seaweed.

I’m a slave to your scent and your heat.

.

But if I plead with him to release you,

with just a snap of his finger and thumb

will you forget his smooth benediction,

or the velvet magic of his silver tongue?

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photography by Ines Rehberg.   Model is Megan Szczypka

This is one of favourite my ‘performance’ poems. In fact it might even be one of the poems I am most proud of having written. It started out as a song but I struggled to write a chorus.  I have posted it a couple of times before when this blog was even less popular than it is now.  It tells a story that was inspired by (my) real life events.  Because it is penned in the first person, the reader/listener tends to think that the narrator is myself. In fact I was the writer of the ‘handful of spidery poems’.  

 
12 Comments

Posted by on August 3, 2016 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Than This

Art by Loui Jover

Than This

.

There is nothing

I want more

than this.

Your hair

a dark storm

on a white sheet.

.

Your body

perfection

beneath my hands.

Your heart

beating fast

for this moment.

.

There is nothing

I want more

than you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

art by Loui Jover

I wrote this a year ago. But I like it. So I will inflict it upon you again.

 
5 Comments

Posted by on February 3, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Inky black

Art by Daniel Danger

The night is inky black

It is cold enough to chill the flesh, chill the bones, chill the soul. I draw my cloak around me and stiffen my shoulders to the frigid air. I feel the skin on my face harden, the lines become deeper, my eyes narrow.

I trace my steps along the narrow path amongst the trees. My breathing is a mist.

There are sounds all around me. A pair of owls twit and woo. A fox barks. A muntjac is noisy and indiscreet in the woods.  The footsteps of ghosts follow me in indistinct echoes. Always ghosts. The wind disturbs the leaves.

The river is hidden to my right. It is swollen with recent rain. I sense it kissing the top of the banks on either side, brushing the underside of the bridge, and silently hurrying towards the far distant sea.

My house, home for what seems like forever but not for much longer, is a huge, looming solid shape. There is a light in a broken square. It shines out like a beacon, and a charm, in the darkness.

The night is inky black.

It surrounds me, engulfs me drowns me. I crunch slowly up the gravel drive. The wild rabbits flee my approach in panic.

I wonder if she will be home.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Daniel Danger

 
11 Comments

Posted by on January 14, 2016 in Still Life

 

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Ought to be a word

Art by Ellen Heck

There ought to be a word

for that delightful, warm, pleasant feeling you experience when you realise that someone is steadily working their way through your blog or your tweets.

It is intimate and sensual, strange and gratifying, and oddly fulfilling.

It is the pleasure of being read

And, just for a short while, being the centre of some stranger’s attention.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Ellen Heck

 

 
26 Comments

Posted by on January 4, 2016 in Still Life

 

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