Sunday, 18 July 2010

Poetry & Motion

The dulcet tones of Adrian Henri drifted out of my computer. Or maybe it was Brian Patten. Or my favourite, Roger McGough. Since the entire two-hour tape of The Mersey Sound was successfully encoded (although I did have to do some tricky conversion to successfully save the first half-hour), it doesn't really matter which. A freshly purchased big-to-small jack jutted out of each side of my green guitar cable, connecting my dictaphone to my trusty old laptop. My guitar lay aside, music books piled on the floor. TD was sitting on the sofa, studiously taking notes and looking very attractive as she did so. And I was paying attention to the computer, half an eye on Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, another half on the emerging waveform on the screen. The other eye was trained on the girl next to me. She turned, and we exchanged smiles.

Suddenly, an unexpected rush of longing. I felt it too. I steadied myself to catch her as she threw herself at me. Swift, decisive, definite. I ran ym hands over her curves, like a sculptor's hands on soft wax. Henri was waxing lyrical with his flowing words. Even my penis was waxing, the familiar feeling as I saw her kecks sliding down her legs sending blood rushing through my body, making the shaft twitch and grow.

"Please..." she whispered. "Please..."

She reclined, her back on the sofa, legs in the air. It had been long, very long; work and bad timing had kept us apart. At that moment I was hit by the realisation. We had been doing nothing but enjoying each other's company. Encoding The Mersey Sound. Snuggling on the sofa in my studio. Reading books, holding hands, planning food. It was all a way of compensating for our weeks of loneliness, listlessness and longing. Sharing our time. Our space. Expressing our love, our desires. Well, this was one more way of doing that. Just one more.

She tumbled forwards, deftly flopping over onto all fours. She was still very wet; I could tell. Well, as I surmised, we were alone in the house. My studio is on the attic floor, so we were away from everything else. And we certainly had all the time in the world for this.

Adrian Henri carried on talking. His soft voice mixed with the happy oohs of TD as I entered her deeply from behind, and my joyful yells as I felt my own enjoyment build up...

...and even without Henri, it surely would have been a kind of poetry, in as of itself.

No comments: