All entries for Sunday 03 April 2005

Bottom, part 1

I’m trying to forget her
That girl that doesn’t like me
I’m trying not to like her
The girl who doesn’t want me.

I bury my head in the sands of literature;
Other times, other places
Far and not so far away.
In sonnets, stanzas, sestinas,
Epics, novellas, fable and fiction,
Men who were great,
Men who were not,
And men who just were.
And of course the women who made them fall,
Whether accident or other’s implement
Or own deliscously deliberate fault.
There’s always a woman.

In my mind I craft a drive-in theatre
And away from reality I speed.
On the screen my imagination plays
Brings to life all the things held in my head,
I see the film where Lancelot slays Gawain’s brother,
So he could rescue a girl
So Gawain challenges him and he accepts
And they don’t fight to the death:

I saw Sir Gawain swing his sword,
And saw Lancelot raise his shield,
Eyes locked, they saw the loser without words,
And both saw how he would refuse to yield.
Lancelot of the Lake, the knight, the lord,
And Gawain, each a master of the field,
Flew together, lances sharp tips like eagles soared,
But landed like lances.
Lancelot, the greatest knight who still lives,
He cannot help but win,
His tip splinters into Gawain’s chest again
In the wings (on the eagle’s) I watch, Gawain’s life his to give.
Gawain challenges again to avenge his kin,
I watch in the hope the lesser man might win.

But my imagination twists
Off the screen
And out of my grasp,
Squirming it makes a picture I don’t want to see.
Every thing that I imagine
My imagination twists to her.
Maybe she is twisting it
Making me think of her.

I saw Gawain again, in Technicolor,
I saw her again in a pretty dress
Gawain was wooing her with all his power
She was the damsel causing me distress.
Gawain the not-quite-perfect knight,
Applies his charms and then she’s his,
Then he becomes perfect in his own right
And I’m forced to watch their first kiss.
And I can’t look away as he lifts up her dress
And I catch a glimpse of her perfect breast,
How painful it was you can’t even guess,
Yet the more I saw the more I fought less,
There was a bizarre fascination I confess.
Like when you turn up unprepared for a test,
And if you survive then count yourself blest.

I tried not to look,
At the porno my film had become,
Tried not to see her breasts and bottom,
Tried to make Gawain go away,

I closed my eyes,
Breathed in deep,
Let the drive-in go,
But my imagination had fucked me right over.

Literature had failed, so I tried friends’ advice
And we went down the pub.
After all
At the bottom of a pint,
Everybody is just fine.

: 03 Apr 2005 23:49 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem