06-20-2012, 06:45 PM
Fish fry fantasy, arms bare brown,
slinking out from gingham sleeves;
blotched in dots, like mad-red henna,
a hotch-potch pattern of hot fat burns.
Bands of beaded, baubled plastic,
stick her oil-slick black hair down.
I watch her smile and blow away
the wayward flicks of steam-damp strands.
Glistening, listening, three times, once.
Once again then twice with peas,
Five pounds twenty, please, thanks, bye now.
Who's next, who's next? Me, it's me.
Yes pet? Sorry….now, what was it,
without chips, you want it wrapped?
Regular or Moby Dick? Who cares? I don't;
my senses are on overload.
All I can see are her eyes swimming,
through the deep sea of my soul.
How can I make choices quickly...
when thoughts are swamped like drowning men?
Her wet-gloss lips are moving, moving..
but all the words just sound like fish.
Through the hiss of watered oil,
the rush of steam, the clattered sieve,
the traffic noise in open doorway,
the blast of air that's welcomed in;
nicotined and petrol tainted
but soon replaced by vinegar vapour,
perfume of the chip-shop girl.
Oh how I came to know and love her,
how I breathed her salty scent;
how I yearned to press her to me,
a single fry between our lips.
Salivating , wanting, waiting...
Scraps, enough to last a lifetime,
on demand, with Coke thrown in.
Chip shop girl I long to know you,
long to squeeze your haddock hips,
long to lick your sea-bed places.....
Oh, the hell. Make that with chips.
tectak
2012
slinking out from gingham sleeves;
blotched in dots, like mad-red henna,
a hotch-potch pattern of hot fat burns.
Bands of beaded, baubled plastic,
stick her oil-slick black hair down.
I watch her smile and blow away
the wayward flicks of steam-damp strands.
Glistening, listening, three times, once.
Once again then twice with peas,
Five pounds twenty, please, thanks, bye now.
Who's next, who's next? Me, it's me.
Yes pet? Sorry….now, what was it,
without chips, you want it wrapped?
Regular or Moby Dick? Who cares? I don't;
my senses are on overload.
All I can see are her eyes swimming,
through the deep sea of my soul.
How can I make choices quickly...
when thoughts are swamped like drowning men?
Her wet-gloss lips are moving, moving..
but all the words just sound like fish.
Through the hiss of watered oil,
the rush of steam, the clattered sieve,
the traffic noise in open doorway,
the blast of air that's welcomed in;
nicotined and petrol tainted
but soon replaced by vinegar vapour,
perfume of the chip-shop girl.
Oh how I came to know and love her,
how I breathed her salty scent;
how I yearned to press her to me,
a single fry between our lips.
Salivating , wanting, waiting...
Scraps, enough to last a lifetime,
on demand, with Coke thrown in.
Chip shop girl I long to know you,
long to squeeze your haddock hips,
long to lick your sea-bed places.....
Oh, the hell. Make that with chips.
tectak
2012
