dial me a devilish smile and i'll hand you roses in a basket made of leather. i'll buy you a low slung exotic car but i hate that model, the way she looks at my car and my jacket is offensive,
but my small kingdom is like a prison for gilded humans made of gold and ivory. i was born with a silver spoon jutting out of my mouth, it fashioned my linguistic skills and i never knew where my humour came from or where i learnt to glue these words together, sometimes it's repressive.
dial me a lone number and i'll hand you a symphony by hans zimmer or clint mansell, i find it offensive the way i walk past you when you double down in pain while i flick slick tricks on my bike with my headphone volumes spiking, i do it every day so fast that you don't see me,
she's not learned in cool tones and she doesn't read hefty tomes with names like tolstoy or whoever. she might catch me under a tree getting high on life and feeling quite perfect while i scribble the poems that bubble from my wrists as if i cut myself for suicide, and i'm ready to flee.
she might say hi, i might hand her a look of suspicion and decide she's not worth my time or maybe i'll smile and shrug and say have a seat, my dear chap, who are you anyway? with your perfect eyebrows, pouting mouth and high waisted jeans? i thought that was what my people did?
she might even shrug, smile, pout and point and say, how about you lie with me on that rose bed?
most of the time i'd sneer and look at her from my nose and say no. but she's different so i might, just might say fine, i'll allow you to indulge your delusions of grandeur.
but right now, i'm busy eating caviar and oysters, so please kindly....piss off.
