POP STAR Comments

Not that I've ever seen your rosy mouth
for real, or been allowed to give those starry
hands a kiss, yet you do not consist of only
pixels either and on this overcrowded planet
the woman you are perhaps is swearing while
going in search of a hoover bag; as you knock
your head against the lintel - much too low - of
the cellar door. In case you have so many dollars
you can even have this liberating grumble
carried out by someone else; you even sometimes
stand before the mirror searching in your eyes for
who you were when groups of goofballs, hordes of
bloodsucking leeches and hysterical luxury did not

surround you yet.

With a superior sway of your hips you will
have worked your way up, because nobody
exactly remembers how, except of course
at whose expense. I also fantasise that you
get out of bed both smoothly and graciously,
yes, that inapplicable comparisons to
butterflies and does were invented for this.

On this same earth I do think about you
and wonder while I'm waiting in line
for the hot chocolate at the ice-rink in
my ribbon village whether everyday people
would say of us nice couple - complement
each other well. She with her odd ways
should count herself lucky with that

fill in the blanks.

But when I suddenly consider you
are you, and acquaintances and neighbours
come from all around for you to sign
their pillowcases I am seized with panic that
in actual fact you want something other than
to live with me who walks the dogs and folds
the washing, cooks the meals and for the rest
just sits there dawdling at his ageing computer.

In the picture in the gossip section of the
webzine this morning your hair was pulled
so tightly into a ponytail that I
wondered do your eyes sparkle
with pain perhaps.
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