Sex was expected and we submitted, competently
enough, but afterwards, neither of us wanted to remain
for a post-coital cigarette and the conversation. Your
for a post-coital cigarette and the conversation. Your
bedside reading was Roland Barthes, The Pleasure
of the Text. Mine, was Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas
Pynchon, which I still haven’t finished (although
I accept it matters, as a document)
I accept it matters, as a document)
It was the same with music.
You were David Bowie and I was waiting for someone
to put JJ Cale on the turntable and tell me, Listen to this,
to put JJ Cale on the turntable and tell me, Listen to this,
it’s amazing.
If we’d read them (we hadn’t)
you would have picked Neruda
and I would have gone with Lorca. This
and I would have gone with Lorca. This
is the closest either of us has come
to re-establishing contact.
.
.
Steven Taylor
.
Enjoyed this poem.
Comment by Angie Birtill on 6 September, 2024 at 10:52 am