Poem For Internet Date That Came To Nowt #246
(for Squadling, 2013)
I'm a knickerlicker, I mean, my tongue's in a twist
when it's Miss Tiffany Apple I do address.
She smokes furiously, drives 100mph,
& Tiffapple's poison is Angel Sours
- tho' later I met her ex's ex, who labrished
Tiff had sunk more bottlesofvino than tide
at Waxham beach, post-examresults.
But I had inkling quidnunc was green-eyed,
eclipsed
by what a wuxom bench Tiff does present
in her favorite
snugfitting
sparklestriped
jumper dress.
So she whooped me at pool; I wasn't flush
w/ success at fuze-
ball either. Tiff wasn't impressed.
She's 1 of the lads & I am just a wuss.
Prollysplains why her blackcardied arm
in rebuffing imitation
of Bela Lugosi's dunt stouble
neckerchiefed her sour appley lips
when I went into smooch
that beautiful hard face.
Silver ivy ink
on her alabaster wrists
(ivy as in '& the holly', not intravenous).
Bent over the table, she's snookilicious.
It's a tricky shot, but Tiff's a beast on the baize.
& a butcher at badminton, or so she says:
we never played.
Betja never heard
of Betjeman or Joan Hunter Dunn,
Tiff, who's furnished but unburnished by
Attleborough sun. At school,
she was goth gal adorned w/
Jack Skellingtons,
& she still has a goth gal's snowwhite complexion.
Intimations of eleckissity
l/ that 1st frenchie at school,
but there's no fool l/ a 35-yr-old fool,
toothless old shark in this dating pool.
She's just a kid who thinks it's cool to be a bitch,
but, baby, it's so not, not really.
Don't add to life's bitch tapestry.
She's still just a kid, just w/ a killer bod
- aren't they all when they're barely 20?
Well, can't say mine was,
but you catch my drift.
Still a kid who's gutted Busted split,
tho' I guess I'm still gutted Kurt had a gun
- he swore he dint!
But any kid would have a beautiful hard face
if Daddy was in denial
Mummy's mission
was drinking her remission
into submission, pissing cells back
into malignant fission.
O I am just a jessie,
but she's 1 of the boys
- in 1 sitting Tiff destroyed 7 saveloys!
& I am not Matt Willis, alas, what malice
is this? Just the usual:
she's giving me a miss.
But when the last in a lifetime
of crestfallen sighs jilts my body,
& classic rock stations of the future
give Busted a miss
forevermore,
when Tiff is crabby & wrinkly
- her visage uglier, softer -
she will still be the hardfaced
Venus of Attleborough
in this no1wannabew/me
wannabe immortal doggerel.
Form of emotional graymail,
my longrunning answer
to imaginary RSVP
that another Dear John over the dog & the bone
sends to that ghoul for my selfdisgust,
who is my real muse.
Soz, Tiff, our carcrash dates
could have been crashcourse
in learning to love you,
but I was born loving to hate
my real muse - it's me.
(Tho' were Miss Tiffapple to reperuse
in an aeon my rejectionprocessing
paean to her fitness fled
- when she's crabby & wrinkly, uglier, softer,
it'd be more poignant
if Kindlescreens went crinkly,
chronologised coffeerings
& tearstains
l/ the oldschool jotters
of struckoff teachers.)