The Idea of Freedom

[heslopian]

The idea of exposure entrances me,
I imagine a bar, a pint of Guinness,
and a handsome fellow in a lumberjack shirt.

And then, for a moment, a peculiar emotion
stirs its cauldron, and I feel warmer than
a butcher’s collar. Though soon the clichés rise and

beseech me, like some much disdained grandmother.
I do not care for earrings, nor shiny leather shoes,
dance music or certain string vests, and yet the two

go hand in hand, it seems, like lovers bound together
with glue. My neighbour, he still trims his hedge.
The bus still arrives just that three minutes late.

And my father still bristles with barely sealed hate.
But the horrors continue to linger within; those hopeless
old harpies, who dip in their tea small dark red biscuits,

made of the lumps carved from me. In the end, charm
even blesses pornography, as a certain freedom lurks
behind such crass images. The pleasured scream,

the recipient’s screwed up eyes, the penetration itself,
carries liberation like a purple handbag. One you’d
never use yourself, of course, but which is pretty to

admire nonetheless. I curl up on the bed like some
superior hound, and imagine the bar all over again.
That large pint of Guinness. That handsome fellow.

[billy]

i feel as though i've read this one before ?

The idea of exposure entrances me, [entrances feels a bit flaccid, what about something like 'gives me a stiffy' or something else.
I imagine a bar, a pint of Guinness,
and a handsome fellow in a lumberjack shirt.

And then, for a moment, a peculiar emotion
stirs its cauldron, and I feel warmer than
a butcher’s collar. Though soon the clichés rise and this works well, though i can imagine a vicars collar here for some reason

beseech me, like some much disdained grandmother.
I do not care for earrings, nor shiny leather shoes,
dance music or certain string vests, and yet the two really like this verse

go hand in hand, it seems, like lovers bound together
with glue. My neighbour, he still trims his hedge.
The bus still arrives just that three minutes late. and this one even more so

And my father still bristles with barely sealed hate.
But the horrors continue to linger within; those hopeless
old harpies, who dip in their tea small dark red biscuits, great image

made of the lumps carved from me. In the end, charm
even blesses pornography, as a certain freedom lurks
behind such crass images. The pleasured scream,

the recipient’s screwed up eyes, the penetration itself,
carries liberation like a purple handbag. One you’d fantastic line that gave me a smile
never use yourself, of course, but which is pretty to

admire nonetheless. I curl up on the bed like some
superior hound, and imagine the bar all over again.
That large pint of Guinness. That handsome fellow. nice ending

just a couple of nits but i felt this is a lot stronger than a first read suggests. i like the hook at the end which makes us think of the start and the wanting of reading it again.
for me it capture some kind of family essence and personal feelings that we all have. that for some reason attacks everyone. envy, lust greed, animosity. it has a bit of everything going for it yet stays a slice of life.

all my nits are small and could be ignored without any harm being done hehe. (jmo)
thanks for the read jack.