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Sex and the British
Sex and the British
They’re drawing the curtains in Dorking,
Lighting the candles and pouring the lotions.
Switching off TV’s and shelving resentments,
Checking on children asleep in the darkness,
Creeping up hallways like teenage lovers.
Stairs and hopes creaking in equal measure.
Clothes are Falling in Fulham.
Tights in the hall and pants in the bathroom,
Bra on the shelf
And doubts in the kitchen,
As newly acquainted
Swap fluids and feelings,
Hoping for phone calls,
Instead of diseases.
Lay byes are calling in Luton,
Cars with their lights on wait on the verges,
Engines and pulses expectant and purring,
Strangers stand round swapping cider and sadness,
While a dozen pale bottoms nod in the moonlight.
They’re re-lighting fires in Bolton,
Forgetting the years of disinterest and boredom,
Of nights by the TV, tight lipped and separate,
Silent pub meals and bad-tempered breakfasts.
Tracing the contours of flesh and forgiveness,
Opening like flowers,
Hoping for closeness.
They’re turning the lights off in Reigate,
Closing their eyes and thinking of strangers,
Scarlet or George,
The Doctor, the cleaner,
The local MP or the teenage neighbour.
Excitement is building in Brixton.
Fingers are probing and gripping the carpet,
Bodies are merging and arguments fading,
The bills and the mortgage,
Frustrations and failures,
Pushed aside like regrets and the duvet..
Flesh is moving in Folkestone,
Thighs colliding and buttocks vibrating,
Tongues exploring and hands rediscovering
Blood engorging and nipples darkening,
Like monsoon rain clouds,
Or over-cooked porridge.
The explosion is coming in Eastbourne,
Necks are straining and head boards rebounding
As thighs move faster, grow weary and slacken.
And grunting and gasping gives way to elation,
The volcano erupts and mine shaft convulses,
Horses break free
And barriers lie broken.
The deluge has fallen in Derby
Eyes make contact and souls fall open,
Allowing brief entry of one life to another,
So even bored couples feel slightly connected,
While the lucky embrace,
Like shipwrecked sailors,
Listening in silence to mermaid and dolphin,
Singing of coral and sand and completeness.
They’re comfy as sofas in Sutton
Lying in gloom and watching the ceiling,
Thinking of love and looking for tissues,
Swallowing tea and checking their emails.
Making small talk about gardens and daytrips,
Feet and hearts meeting,
Under the covers.
Copyright © Stephen Bloom | Year Posted 2017