Paused amid an inhale,
With nothing more pleasurable than a point to make
Yet God forbid I exhale and risk the headache
Of having a flag to stick in the ground.
But when I’m older right, when I grow up,
I’ll do something to make me admired
Mid-twenties, mid-mind fuck, fully uninspired.
Then week 25 of 52 I fell in love with you.
Tilted it was and jilted I became by my own perception -
Nothing but a self-deception that my life is still all to play for.
Transfixed on¬¬ pin-balling hips and fearlessly tell-all lips,
Your razor-sharp conviction had me whipped
And whipped me into shape.
Brick by brick, inhales swell to a puffed out chest,
Now not only God knows I can be my best.
Who’d have guessed, in a mind’s cardiac arrest,
My potential compressed
That Saint Claude would have me blessed.
Because that feeling’s been fading these years,
That I could stand on shoulders and speak to have people hear,
Where I’m coming from.
Truth be told it was long gone.
Stranded somewhere down that ‘right path’,
Thumb out, hollowed by doubt,
Losing track of what this is all about.
But you were born from this,
Whispering fantasies of an epicene kiss.
Championing the intricacies I’ve felt
With the crotch vindicated under your belt.
Owning the four corners, limbs sprawled,
Soloing a dogma that has me enthralled,
Yes I had stalled.
But if you can now only reminisce,
Of how you were born from this,
It can only be my time to be illuminated,
Drag me up to a form anticipated.
Robyn Hislop is a graphic designer who writes on the 73 bus home, Oxford Circus to Stoke Newington.