It’s falling in love people love, the nervous excitement
Move and counter-move in the ancient game of enticement

But I don’t yearn for early days with their permanent state
Of tumescence, prepared to get up on a cracked plate

Smoothtalking my way into your house and fumbling on chairs
Jumping away in fright at a bronchial cough upstairs

Returning through dark deserted streets, pounding on like crack
Troops on the march – or hobbling in agony, foreskin back

Getting home again at dawn and trying not to wake a soul
By peeing in total darkness down the side of the bowl.

Nor do I yearn to be free, casting off wasted years
To ride someone else into the sunset with joyful tears.

So that’s NO bap-faced students, NO culture vultures in heat
NO colleagues or in-laws seeing my true worth, NO dark meat

NO petulant nymphets, detached and impossibly slim
NO mature divorces with it biting the leg off them

NO receptionists taking off glasses and letting down hair
NO frustrated green-belt wives in expensive underwear

– Strictly for Wednesday Plays. Real ones are tough as old hide.
There’s little glamour truly. As my old friend gently sighed

Of Marilyn Monroe: How could the Kennedy boys get
Excited? Her poor little thing wouldn’t even be wet.

Then there’s phoney free-form passion, ripping skin and yelling.
I favour standards, traditional grammar and spelling

Calm organisation and planning, the disciplined way
(See my ‘Top-down Methodology in Structured Sex Play’).

You’re my centre of excellence with private grounds in bloom
Resource and reception areas, hospitality room

My new in-house system with hands-on capability
User-friendly, with feedback, power and flexibility

Affording continuous two-way communication
My optimal target group for market penetration

My core-and flexi-time, my rest and recreation
My ongoing, upwardly mobile situation.

My love will survive all troubles, the fighting and bitching
Huffs, depressions, illnesses and personal-membrane itching

The ravages of time, of course. Decrepit, fat or thin
I will never be unsure which wrinkle to put it in.

Tumultuous, piquant, the start and the end of the thing
Are the bits that sell – but the in-between time’s what I sing

The lights low and half the band gone for their tea and a bun.
We take the floor again. The number is a smoochy one.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences