OF BOLLINGER & RECOLLECTION

spies-2

 

his tainted breath, his tainted genius, as if yesterday

she remembers The Englishman still; how could she forget?

banana skin conversations, ‘careful where one treads’ bias

 

to her cost she had found a Cambridge honed high intellect

coupled with a gift for meticulous prepping ensured

he excelled in setting checkmate traps; savoured conquests

The Englishman was a true grandmaster in that regard

 

it was with well-bred grace on an expectant evening

and with tantalising promise he sanctioned her sweet

surrender; fulfilled her craving for lascivious defeat

yet how foolish to share mind, body and other less tangible things

things that were best kept confidential, things he took possession of

those private insights and a replica of her form, nagged at her always

the bubbly going down like silk, washed away with it the rough edges

of palpable anxiety, her train of thought, as trains of thought often do

pulled into station to gather up coke and water, she noted that the gentle

chilling of the evening was no match for the chill of her magnum,

a Bollinger naturally, resting comfortably in an ice bucket at her side

she determined to quaff every single last droplet, maybe that way

she might drown his unwelcome, almost credible lingering essence

insufficient time for aimless pondering; refuelled, the train moved off

the almost flawless Englishman, cursed with an Achilles heel

to wit his well-documented penchant for ripened femininity

of a certain disposition, and résumé verifying carnal pedigree

 

over an exploratory dinner she fathomed The Englishman

plainly preferred to ‘bring to heel’ rather than ‘sweep off feet’

she played the ‘run for your life’ fox, to his pack of salivating dogs

so cruel the storm surge breaching flood gates of recollection

the strongest current carrying her off downstream toward the lock

where good fortune’s sailboat comes to an abrupt halt

 

one sweaty early morn, post ‘any which way’ coition

best laid dreams unfolded, with wounding brashness

“our little game is now over, a shame that I so easily become bored”

with sorrow’s own tears flowing as waterfall

having sunk more than one too many glassfuls

her final recollection of the one she had come

against all odds to claim as a worthwhile lover

 

in the humidity of a steam laden shower room

 just the hint of his naked contours unmasked

through dismal mist behind the opaque glass door

she clinically pumped a dozen bullets of crushed passion

into The Englishman; done and dusted, her misshapen world

perhaps he was not so clever after all, a last, last thought

upon the subject of The Englishman…for a moment in time, at least

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31 thoughts on “OF BOLLINGER & RECOLLECTION

      1. As did I over Brexit. I understand just how hard it is. Even this day a guy wanted to hit me because of the EU Flag badge I wear proudly on my lapel. Luckily for me he bottled when I suggested he ‘go forth and multiply’!

      2. BBC carried a news bulletin today re how sales of ammunition have gone through the roof in the US in these days prior to the election. The statistical sources seemed valid and the BBC (without advertisers is impartial). Is that true?

  1. Mike, I think he was a “cad” who may have deserved a high heel shoe thrown at him or maybe someone flush the toilet and cause hot water to flow over his head.
    The ending may be justified, who knows? The lady is certainly getting the female sympathy!

      1. My addled old brain read this having forgotten what I wrote previously! What a twat I am sometimes. You are spot on, the Accidental PM is the consummate waste of space blessed with a pinch of evil intent.

  2. Ye gods, Sir. Such a narrative without sentence. Such imagery without a camera, such feeling within an ether. Such thought, and character, and action in choice and arcs of high and downfall.
    So very brilliant. xxx

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