Sunday, 31 October 2010

Dear Man with the Bicycle: A Prose Poem

Dear man slow-pedalling through Manchester streets, past all those late drinkers, the strangeness of students in swimwear on nights out and police vans with their blare blare blare blare. Dear man on your bicycle, everything seems slower when you are pedalling with a girl behind you clinging to your waist, arms warm, legs splayed and the whoosh whoosh of air and breath and fingers holding on, wanting you. And you find her hands are too gentle, her mouth bites kisses into your skin, and coats jumpers t-shirts are lost so it's just you bare-skinned in a chilly room and her, stripping off a turquoise dress, peeling away tights. She is an aching shade of white, not what you expect or want, she is a girl in front of you unfastening buttons and zips. She will sit astride you while you imagine you are still pedalling through the streets with her behind you. This city is a city you have always known; it is bricks and walls and music beating inside you with your heart drum drumming, and she is such quietness by contrast. She is not what you want. Dear man in her white-sheeted bed, not knowing what to say apart from Come on, fuck me. Fuck me. There is something just ever-so-maybe-you-don't-know-anything-about-her and she will ask you questions when there are no answers only music drum drumming inside you. Dear man waking with the end of a head cold, wondering why you didn't let her go all night, why she didn't ask you to leave like last time, this all or nothing everything girl who is accidentally maybe sometimes never going to be for you. But still, you feel the need to tell her Soon every time you leave on your bicycle, unchained from the front railings and pedalled slowly through this city of damp commuters and street sweepers, with the beat beat of your life loud in your head, louder than her, and maybe you know already that you never want to see her again. But you don't tell her. Yes, this is how it is. This is how it is.

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