Across my path last night you flew:
A cocksure, giggling, half-drunk mess
The smokescreen of a hidden you,
unstable in your awkwardness
I grimaced as you spilled your drink,
and played the slack-jawed sort of bloke
who likes to say, but seldom thinks
and jabs his way through punchless jokes
I know your sort. Perhaps that’s why
I’ve stuck to bookish types who read
– No. I mean that’s what I’ve tried,
but never managed to succeed.
The ones I go for wear a love
of arcane writers on their sleeve
that hints we’ll fit like hand in glove.
We never do. I always leave.
The trouble is, to those who deal
in ordered words and pretty prose,
the everyday can seem unreal
– a blurry world beyond their nose.
Potential swims against the fact:
the promise of a well-read man
(no matter how that still attracts)
rarely goes the way I plan.
What virtue would I stand to lose
to value men as I do books?
Not be so shallow as to choose
them by their cover, or their looks?
Everybody looks to hide
our worst from others. It’s because
we can’t risk showing what’s inside:
the most repugnant of our flaws.
I might as well give you a chance
as drunkards might as well with me;
the gamble of a mating dance
where no one’s as they seem to be
So send your beer-stained look my way
and watch me primly waiting here,
crafting something smart to say
to rid myself of sober fear.
I’ll fight the urge in me to ask
you as you greet me with a grin:
‘What lies behind your lager mask –
does something brainy live within?’
Who cares? Come here and kiss my lips.
Seduce me with a dirty offer.
Lick my neck and grab my hips
– then tell me of your favourite author.
