Lovesick lothario and his far out fantasy.
She’s a candy dream,
silent scream Queen,
killing Casanova dead with her red wine, divine kind of kisses.
He has been reformed,
finally getting his shit together at midday,
as the sun sits in the centre of his life,
and his family fan out with disappointed, disapproving glares,
flaring up at the mere mention of her name,
because he could change for her,
and that’s JUST like him,
so has he really changed at all?
Is it love when it started off so selfish?
Is it still devotion if she doesn’t really want it?
Entwined in his arms and his demands,
she rolls her eyes,
tapping his wrist watch,
marvelling at how it captures the hours with hands that have been haywire since he became besotted,
and they both know that she is only tender for the tempting tendrils of lilacs,
but they wait under wailing skies,
dancing in deserts to Benny Strong and his band.
The sky, so blue,
the dream, so damned,
the lies, so luscious.
He cries like a newborn when she is gone,
because he has never loved anyone the way that he loves her,
and she comes back, like a lost child,
because she’s tired of trying to be true to herself.