Honing a black fantasy back at home.
Well, it’s my mother’s home, but I’m home alone.
Home of her 50 year-old son all alone, polishing his dome, whipping his foam.
Key in the door! Tissue hits the floor, zip-up, wipe-down, cum-face turns to frown.
A short-term deposit loses interest withdrawn in an instant as parent draws-in.
Too late to open a new account in the Hong Kong and Shanghai Wank Bank
A tissue full of rank deposited by a yank, a spank and a crank on my plank.
Fuck this, no space, I ain’t got a place to shed this waste
11pm and out, off to the local meat market to mark fresh meat
The two-quid-and-you’re-in nightclub is my sex life, my new position;
My on-top, my underneath and from behind.
Nocturnal home of my imaginary wife;
The invisible trouble and strife, reality reveals I’m alone with my knife.
A pork sword to sink, piggy-snout without the squeal and snorts
A curly tail, thin and pink.
An animal part I waggle over the bathroom sink.
There’s the dance floor.
Full of whore, girls next door, phwoar and pussy galore.
My pants score.
Pitching more tent than a Millets sales floor.
Wristing and wrestling with my pocket Ghandi
Hole in my pocket is coming in handy,
Nobody knows I’m feeling this randy,
Flicking my thumb on my swollen glandy,
Cant quite hide my full hand-shandy.
Need a different modus operandi.
The best-before date long expired on this hard-candy.
A frankly frightly public wank stinking of my nightly rank.
Girls shake; my cock wakes.
Rock-hard pant-loaf starting to bake.
This pound-cake is beginning to ache.
Springing up like a stood-on a rake.
Burnt-on crust, floured with white dust.
Week-old ingredients from a one-handed crust.
Sour dough-balls but no mouths to fill.
My imagination is a Bible for the mentally ill.
A seedy baguette heavy on the yeast
A sour-dough-roll and a long hard feast
Pants are possessed by a hard greased beast,
Groin needs exorcising by a Catholic priest.
Risen in my Aga, this un-proven mess is getting harder,
The third-leg steak-cake is sweating in my larder,
Need to give my snake a break.
Before my trousers opaque.
Did I say “Snake”?
Did I say “French Stick”?
Shame it’s a lie, here’s the truth about my dick:
It’s more two cheese balls and a quarter bread-stick.
Visualise a candle – it’s the size of the wick.
More “Little Richard” than “HRH King Dick”.
I bolt. A jolt to the system. Liquid loose from pink cistern.
A jump in my pants turns to a lump in my throat as I note across the dance, three men by chance, have clocked my frantic nightlife antics and are soon to cross the room intent on sinking my boat like the Titanic.
I twist and turn to leave this joint,
Making my way to the cloakroom point.
Pick up my dirty mac, checking back, fellas getting nearer, push clear for the rear door, lunging for the street, sends past the bouncers, benders, the poor and the shit-in-a-tray vendors.
Nightbus calling, dodging the trails of sick and shit, gotta shake my tail, but not in the same sense as the tail-shaking earlier which waked my tail, shaked my nail, whacking my wanger like a rough old wrangler.
I’m a secret wanger strangler.
Fleet of feet I turn down a street, safe to return next week for more geek-peek under the sheet of loud beats in my disco retreat.
Like the secret lemonade drinker only stinkier, creepier, night-stalking night-clubs knight-stick gland in hand, my fleshy night-club to rub with a stalk-on I get my walk-on to flesh out my fantasy back at home.
Well, it’s my mother’s home. But I’ll be home alone.