The Eternal Love of Women
Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2011 4:22 pm
Yes, I know they are not all drop-dead beautiful
but we can imagine that they are, help them along,
and from the imagination springs the seeds of truth:
even the most ghastly girl is a Marilyn in her mind.
Leaving the marginals aside for the moment,
gaze adoringly on the madly wonderful remainder.
They dress so well. They smell so good. They look so fine.
No wonder they do our silly fuckin heads in.
It’s like they want us to … ahhh … without touching.
Looking, looking ... well, looking is eternally free,
and there’s an awful lot of nice things to look at.
Their springy walks, short dresses, the sidelong glances.
Every day when you go into town you see 3-400 women
and you want to, well, try it on with about twenty.
There was this girl in a shiny blue mini earlier today
and I followed her from the bus up the escalator.
She grabbed her skirt and stared down daggers at me:
God, they are so so aware of our attention and intentions!
Too bad she turned back, she was right fuckin ugly,
such a tantalising prospect (Oooh) from the rear.
Mother Nature is relentless: she never lets you go
until you are old and toothless and gaga and even then,
a flip of a skirt, a wicked eye, the casually unbuttoned blouse
gets you going all over again. It’s not bloody fair!
Nothing’s ever been fair about it. The girls want us, the boys,
on their own terms. They make their own precious decisions:
you can be in heaven today and slapped up in jail tomorrow
because your little ickle sweetheart changed her mind.
Men are control freaks, yes, I know that.
Moslems put them in headscarfs and hijabs
(Afghani girls have these tinkly tinkly ankle bracelets)
as if to accentuate frustrated sexual obsessions.
The Chinese forced young girls to maim their feet,
Africans jam on rings to extend young women’s necks.
Victorians ladies wore bustles to accentuate their forbidden arses,
girls after the Great War tried to look like breastless boys.
In the West, now, we rip off all their clothes, do Page Threes,
encourage silicone boob jobs, do a lot of heavy panting,
then abruptly slap people into prison for sexual harrassment
like nudging shoving penguins on the edge of an ice floe.
It’s just so repressively stupid. We want to … engage … a few times,
men and women, before we die, not just hormonal teenagers,
but people in their 30s and 40s and 50s and 60s and 70s and …
however long you can keep the damn thing going!
This thing called physical love.
but we can imagine that they are, help them along,
and from the imagination springs the seeds of truth:
even the most ghastly girl is a Marilyn in her mind.
Leaving the marginals aside for the moment,
gaze adoringly on the madly wonderful remainder.
They dress so well. They smell so good. They look so fine.
No wonder they do our silly fuckin heads in.
It’s like they want us to … ahhh … without touching.
Looking, looking ... well, looking is eternally free,
and there’s an awful lot of nice things to look at.
Their springy walks, short dresses, the sidelong glances.
Every day when you go into town you see 3-400 women
and you want to, well, try it on with about twenty.
There was this girl in a shiny blue mini earlier today
and I followed her from the bus up the escalator.
She grabbed her skirt and stared down daggers at me:
God, they are so so aware of our attention and intentions!
Too bad she turned back, she was right fuckin ugly,
such a tantalising prospect (Oooh) from the rear.
Mother Nature is relentless: she never lets you go
until you are old and toothless and gaga and even then,
a flip of a skirt, a wicked eye, the casually unbuttoned blouse
gets you going all over again. It’s not bloody fair!
Nothing’s ever been fair about it. The girls want us, the boys,
on their own terms. They make their own precious decisions:
you can be in heaven today and slapped up in jail tomorrow
because your little ickle sweetheart changed her mind.
Men are control freaks, yes, I know that.
Moslems put them in headscarfs and hijabs
(Afghani girls have these tinkly tinkly ankle bracelets)
as if to accentuate frustrated sexual obsessions.
The Chinese forced young girls to maim their feet,
Africans jam on rings to extend young women’s necks.
Victorians ladies wore bustles to accentuate their forbidden arses,
girls after the Great War tried to look like breastless boys.
In the West, now, we rip off all their clothes, do Page Threes,
encourage silicone boob jobs, do a lot of heavy panting,
then abruptly slap people into prison for sexual harrassment
like nudging shoving penguins on the edge of an ice floe.
It’s just so repressively stupid. We want to … engage … a few times,
men and women, before we die, not just hormonal teenagers,
but people in their 30s and 40s and 50s and 60s and 70s and …
however long you can keep the damn thing going!
This thing called physical love.