| Byron's Wingback Speaks of Love I
realise I am getting old when I feel him sit down.
There was once a time when he would bound in,
thrusting his hips forcefully into my cushions.
He would let his right hand wander over my curves.
It tickled when he brushed my velvet thread.
I would take the weight of his body into my own,
my red plush wings shading his mind from the world,
enveloping him in an embrace as rich as his wine.
He lay his head on my rest and I whispered
in his ear all the love I had ever felt.
I was a ruby concubine kiss amongst the dry skin of
the library.
Then came debutantes and dilettantes who danced
until they broke my bones with their careless loving.
My soft fur manged, my skin grew so hard
it could offer no comfort but that of memory.
But I am still here, riddled with his smell.
I am his opposite, his lover, his bride -
where he sticks out, I stick in, spooned together.
When he comes, wild and rambling, I soothe
as he sits, eyes closed, his hand travelling
across my threadbare, sagging body.
Decree
If you are going to love me
- and I hope that you will -
please acquaint yourself with my rules.
You shall at all times wait for my word
and follow my command - sub-clause -
even when I am irrational or depressed.
You shall ride a motorbike as your stead
and come to me in the middle of the night
dressed in black leather, straddling chrome.
You shall travel the globe in search of gifts,
exotic fruits to slip into my mouth, and kisses
that make my heart miss a beat.
You shall tattoo my name on your skin
to tell the world that you are mine,
to tell them I am enough for you.
I shall make you a home from glass.
Even when you sleep, I will watch over you
to keep your bed free from strangers.
In the unfortunate circumstance
of me not living up to your expectations,
please read the disclaimer at the end:
all faults and unhappiness will rest
on you and you alone, for failing to be the best.
Remember, any overdue payments gather interest.
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