Laurence

He was tall
was Laurence
dressed like an acting man
loads of noise
endless elderly Judas kissed scripts
intent on driving sugar coated daggers into vulnerable women.
but he wore no make-up or dusted no Oscar
thank God

He was immaculate
was Laurence
crisp in righteous white and perfect man blue
no Virgin Matey or I.T. bod
but filing female names
for pulling out on empty days

He homilised
did Laurence
but no St. John or tambourine man.
offering to women essential succulent salvation
come unto me
rallying their hearts with boom boom jokes
he operated a one man support system

He loved around
pearls being not his only gift necklace
spit threaded with gratuitous whispers also lubricated
arriving with a smile of expensive teeth
he misrepresented himself always
leaving the gal with a problem
but no poems or originality.

He could talk
could Laurence
self-proclaimed visionary, bleeding idiot, man on the Clapham omnibus
but not a proper thinker or tenderiser
he mock listened as their heads inclined
as knees parted

He stalked women
on the edge of their crumbling verges
his arms outstretched my dear
love was not however ever in his vocab
just 30 humps and an occasional thump
down his localised ordinary road

But
Laurence was paralysed one day
when the god of love finally fired his rusting arrow
shooting a holy load into the fraudsters heart
and seeping and weeping
Laurence stumbled around without a sodding clue

He twisted, twirled, danced like a drunk
in love like never before
Laurence, now a true romantic, grew in the warmth of his 'fanny girl'
offering her his life and three hot meals
he even wrote his sister 'She is just lovely''
But Laurence sat gaping like a dying fish
as 'the one' his 'hot cherry pie' mimed 'I don't love you'

He was tall
was Laurence
so his tears had a long long way to fall
and not a single, divorced, married or lonely soul was on hand, available
to watch them drop
thank God...




Angela Norris