Awake
Awake
O317
Bloody marvellous. I was knackered before I went to bed.
I don't know why that stingy scotch git can't shell out for a decent hotel room for a change. If it comes to that I'd settle for two indecent rooms.
Wonder if he noticed? 'Course he bloody noticed -- Doyle of the Yard -- bound to have. What on earth possessed me to say something so bloody stupid? As if I haven't spent half my adult life sharing rooms with fellas.
He didn't say anything though -- that's the worrying thing.
God, my back hurts: bloody mattress.
Wonder if he's tried it? Went to Art School in the '60's -- must have been propositioned at the very least. And he doesn't seem worried that half the town is going to think we've turned up here to open the Poof of The Month Club.
Top or Bottom?
NO! I'm not going to think about that. Not with the nearest hankie in my jacket pocket anyway. Save it up for when we get home.
0319
Shit.
It's getting worse. Least last time we bunked together at Uncle Macklin's House of Horrors I got to sleep eventually. Watching him undress, the scatter of sparks from the static when he pulled his jumper over his head. Wonder why that was so damn erotic?
And another bloody train.
"This is the Night Mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order"
Never remember what comes after that, something about pulling up Beattock. Then the easy bit.
"Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations
And applications for situations
And timid lovers' declarations"
Now there's an idea. Write him a letter. "Dear Doyle, I fancy you something chronic, love Bodie". Ha! More like, "I love you something chronic, fancy Bodie." Fancy Bodie? Do you fancy Bodie?
Fancy Bodie -- sounds like a dodgy cowboy.
Poetry, poetry. Keep the mind occupied and the todger quiet, that's the ticket.
There isn't really anything that suits him. "Hail to thee blithe spirit, bird thou never wert."?
Oh, this is ridiculous, what sort of prat lies in bed at -- Christ, 0325 -- giggling like an idiot?
Poetry for Doyle.
Right.
Pity my own stuff is such crap.
Well, so what? I'm not going to be sending it to Faber and Faber. Might as well give it a go. Got nothing better to do.
Okay, where do we start?
How's about.
In this anonymous hotel room, in this anonymous Midlands town
He sleeps.
No, better the other way round.
He sleeps.
In this anonymous hotel room, in this anonymous Midlands town,
That'll do. Now to describe him, the way he moves. Something swift and...
and... graceful and dangerous.
Nothing to do with guns though, wrong feel.
Let's see.
The arrows flight, ... the.... the...the dancer's turn,
That's not bad
The anger and the laughter and the fear,
are laid to rest
Oh hell, that's sounds like he's dead.
Are laid at rest.
That's better. What have we got so far?
He sleeps.
In this anonymous hotel room, in this anonymous Midlands town,
The arrows flight, the dancer's turn,
The anger
No.
The passion and the laughter and the fear
are laid at rest.
Now something about his hands, I think
The artist's hand
No, cliche, cliche.
The killer's hand
No, too brutal...... Hang on, what about
One lethal hand
That's better
One lethal hand on .... shoddy cotton lays -- lies beside his face,
And something about his wrists, always surprises me something that thin
can be that strong.
The river map of veins beneath the palm..... shows like.....
Like a river map, oh great!
And skinny and thin and boney are all such awkward words.
Okay, scratch the wrists.
The callused fingers curled,
Curved?
No.
curled above the palm.
His lips are red, the blood runs close beneath the skin.
He bleeds from wounds that most men hardly feel.
Just men? I've met plenty of women that were harder boiled than him.
So.
He bleeds from wounds that others hardly feel,
and makes a
Shield? Breastplate?
And makes an armour of his scars, to hide the man within.
I suppose that could be just an excuse. "Leave me alone, I've
been hurt before." I dunno though, I think it might be more than that.
Give him the benefit for the time being.
So, where the hell are we going with this? A description of Doyle asleep.
Who's doing it?
Me?
Why not? Time I made an appearance in my own bloody poem.
And makes an armour of his scars, to hide the man within.
He does not see
No.
He cannot see he would be safe with me,
who knows and loves and only wants to love,
to build an armour for us both against the world.
Be nice that, somewhere safe for us both to go.
Bloody sentimental though. Oh buggerit, a man's entitled to be sentimental at twenty to four in the morning. Might as well go the whole hog.
And so I stand and wait and do the little things
No, no, we don't want to turn this into a bloody greetings card.
Not things, something ...... oh hell....
And so I stand and wait and do the little acts
No, you bloody idiot, you can't do an act.
Make?
Perform?
No. I know.
And so I stand and wait and undertake the little acts and few
That tell him, "I am here and here for you."
Rhyming couplet? Why the hell not? It's my poem and I'll rhyme if I
want to.
He sleeps,
In this anonymous hotel room, in this anonymous Midlands town,
The arrows flight, the dancer's turn,
The passion and the anger and the fear are laid at rest.
One lethal hand ....
One lethal hand ....
Oh yes.
One lethal hand on shoddy cotton lies, beside his face.
His lips are red. The blood runs close beneath the skin,
And bleeds from wounds that others hardly feel.
He makes an armour of his scars to hide the man within.
He cannot see he would be safe with me,
Who knows and loves and only wants to love,
To make an armour for us both against the world.
And so I stand and wait and undertake the little acts and few
That tell him, "I am here and here for you."
There, finished.
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What a load of crap. I should stick to comic verse.
His lips are red, his eyes are green
My thoughts of him are quite obscene.
His lips are green, his eyes are red,
I wonder how long he's been dead.
Or what about a limerick?
Lessee
There was a young fellow called Ray
Whose best friend turned out to be gay.
They lay down together
To find out wh
To dis-cover whether
The pair of 'em swung the same way.
Boum boum.
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0357
I just hope nobody's going to expect me to play Super-Poof tomorrow,
I'm going to be knackered.
They lay down together
To dis-cover whether
The pair of 'em swung the same way.
Give anything to be able to do that.
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I bet he's something else in bed. Mouth like that, got to be.
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And afterwards, when you lie in the dark.
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Someone else's breathing.
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Someone else's warmth.
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He's always warm.
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Be nice that.
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The End
