To be loved by an impossible man,
the poet with a pen for a gun,
and lines in ink for blood on his hand.
His song will be soaked in truth,
no echoes of deceit,
no wisps of strange fragrance.
We will build a straw house,
guard it with our iron hearts.
No hope for spring in France or champagne on The Ritz.
The honest, poor fool,
this no good, no ambition, nothing man.
To be loved by a quiet man,
the blunts will keep us warm,
the fucks will fill our hunger.
A man who would not stop,
whose every breath was mine.
I remember… Sunday morning,
quarter past nine.
Knock, knock, knock.
Sunday is Jesus O’clock,
baba huffs and puffs and answers.
There he is, the kid who cuts our grass.
Didn’t I pay you? Ex-military, 6’4 dad asks.
Yes, sir. We’re busy, after lunch.
Sir, I don’t have much.
Scuffed shoes, toes peeking,
torn up jeans, worn shirt, stolen tie.
I stand taller, so he does too.
I’m going to marry her and if you say no,
get the gun and shoot me now.
To be loved by a lion.
white’s not my colour anyway.
The AG might have a say,
or we’ll just run away.
My straw house is a castle,
I have a peasant for a king,
the sweat keeps him fit.
On the mat that is our bed,
owning nothing but love, lust, and hope.
I am loved by an impossible man.