The Eve Of St Agnes In The Suburbs Poem by Richard Blanch

(I’m really sorry, JK.)

Up the stairs, his brain flushed with blood, the young buck
Had sprung, scarcely breaking his tread. Luck
Was with him; jazz echoed below. Stewed in the ruck
And clamour no one would hear this influx
Of love into their dwelling. He, dumbstruck
With pain that seared his dreams and strained his jeans, a Puck
Haunting the suburbs, stumbled, tumbled, clutched,
And fell under a flashing pane, now red as rust,

Neon blinding the moon. It shone- he sucked
In his breath- upon the breasts he sought. Lust
Hovered in the alternating glow. He paused, panted, wrung
With doubt, mouth dry, tongue stifled. Putting his trust
In boldness, forward he plunged, forgot to duck
The lintel, stunned himself a moment, but
On fire, face down in underwear and other muck
Scattering the floor, stayed only to swear, to fumble, tuck
Her midnight feast into its wrap. There was enough.

He took out his guitar, blundered with the plug,
Violet and rose blinked on the bedside water jug.
The sheets fell back. The neon shone on much
Fine welcoming, wooded country. This he’d come
For. Blended scents rose from the duvet. He began to hum
His love song. She smiled in her sleep, setlled her bum
More smoothly. Risen, pounding, mind amok
But his lute poised, he roused her with his music. Stuck
In her dream she found reality, reared, bucked
And woke wide-eyed. St Agnes’ maid was - won.