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Click hereLiverpool, UK, 7th. January 1997
Alone, she caught my eye--
not unusual when one is oneself alone:
attractive certainly, fine-boned,
a mane of rough dark hair, something vaguely
petulant in her radar gaze
as it swept across the bar.
The man who joined her didn't look her type—
tall, stolid, with the moustache
of a quiet man.
A pint for him and a whisky for her,
they sat on the edge of earshot and
then she began.
It was a clinical attack,
surgical in its precision.
I caught "....shagging her".
She was awesome to watch: I was
glad it wasn't me on the
end of that torrent, but she looked
relaxed in her anger. It was
twenty minutes before he even
made a gesture—the one the bear makes probably,
before the dogs in the bait.
She watched and chain-smoked—her lighter
like a flame-thrower. Dear God,
I thought, if she is as passionate in bed as now....
But some men can live on the edge of a volcano
while others sit and watch from
a safe distance.
(The date is the real date of this. I found it tonight while looking for something else.)
a lighter as a flame thrower and " the moustache of a quiet man". such strong words, such absolutely perfect descriptions. I know in the future I will be looking at moustaches, wondering which is that of a quiet man. You are quite the poet!
especially with anothers mate. TK U MLJ LV NV
Isn't it interesting to overhear snippets of conversation? You taking this one and turning it into a poem (assuming that's what happened) was brilliant. I sensed you desired her passion for yourself.
It was a clinical attack,
surgical in its precision.
Isn't this something of a repitition and wouldn't the it be a stronger read to start 'surgical in its precision'.
Half heard conversations in pubs are always wonderfully surreal and intriging, they leave so much for a fertile imagination to ponder on.
Very cool slice of life stuff. You are getting a recommend.