'At least, it has rhythm'

He wants to cancel everyone out.

Office parodies jollily told,
Beckett-like fishing vignettes
rhythmically crafted,
shower curtains with a touch
of the nostalgic.

He falters, on stage,
like he practiced at home
making references to his
awkward height
and ‘these poems are shite’,

‘Don’t read them, then!’
A brave girl echoes
each silent thought across
the room.

Out he comes with it,
(smearing spit on skinny jeans)
a smuttier version
of ‘Last Tango in Paris’
set round the corner, perhaps.

Anal sex this, groping her that
joyless sex this, joyless sex that.

‘At least, it has rhythm’
I concede to Anna
and when his endless elegy
to anal’s finally over,

enter ‘Death girl’,
(read hopelessly depressing
poems earlier)
mop of
strawberry blonde hair
a-fopping, following
‘Anal sex guy’’s thin black figure

and smiling, congratulating,
weighing each other up.
Anna & I think ‘Anal sex guy’
and ‘Death girl’ make
an apt couple, lovely
is pushing it.