This was a few years ago now. He’s probably forgotten what ‘me-me’ is by now. I wonder if there is a deep longing, the source of which he’s forgotten.
I’ve got one of those unexplained longings. It’s strongest after sun down. I doubt it has anything to do with my mother, but who knows? What I want, what we all want, is a deep abiding connection. To each other. To the world. Maybe the last time we felt a connection like that was at our mother’s breast.
Some of the words:
wow you’re beautiful; hi Sexy Legs; nice breasts; hey, wriggle that arse; where’d you get those shoes; pretty beautiful, stacked; great arse, blond bombshell, wanna root?; eyeliner, eyeshadow, nail polish, lipstick, foundation; wow! wow! wow! …; cock sucking lips; pretty, pretty, pretty, … ; such a sexy smile; you’re much better looking than your sister; beautiful boobs
Poor Barbie. And through it all, smiling like a maniac.
I was asked about how I go about writing a poem. I gave some glib answer about bum-on-chair. But it is an interesting question. I think one stalks a poem, feels the first stirrings as interest in a subject, seeks related content, researches, sits with it. All done with no real eye on the prize. I often don’t even know that I am stalking a poem.
Then one day, one sits down and the pen almost goes off on its own. Some of the things one researched come onto the paper with other, seemingly unrelated things and create juxtapositions and take on some strange logic. Odd words appear that one doesn’t realise one knows. (I often get Latin phrases, despite never having learned Latin.) The result is usually a big mess but the raw materials of the poem are there on the paper, and what remains is to give them form, discard dross, pull more from the ether where needed, shift a word here, a phrase there, leave it some time, come back, do more fine surgery, repeat until finished.
Definition of finished: doesn’t make you squirm.
Barbie’s head makes a really good shuttlecock