Speccie: Pillow Talk
 

Thoroughly Modern Willie proved a happy hunting ground for Spherians. George Simmers won the fiver. Bazza, Bill Greenwell and Lance Levens all took prizes and Frank Osen was mentioned in dispatches.

This week's competition looks good. One could do famous or literary people. I am minded to try Romeo and Juliet in bed in an alternative universe where everything went hunky-dory weddingwise.

No. 2685 pillow talk
You are invited to submit a marital dialogue in verse (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 9 February.

The Owl and the Pussy-cat lay side by side,
Wrapped up in a snuggible quilt.
They were warm and cozy. the groom and his bride,
In a nest that the Owl had built.
Pussy-cat stared into Owl’s great eyes
And purred with a voice like a dove,
O Owlie, my Owlie, O Owlie, my prize,
What a Feathery Fowl. My Love.
The Owl jerked round as he started to bleed
and hooted at his new wife–
“When you purr do you also have to knead?
Each claw is like a knife!”
A knife,
A knife!
Each claw is like a knife!”

Mary E. Moore

Mary, that's lovely. And here's a bit of Stichomythia. And it really is. I looked it up.


Pillow Talk

There’s something magic in Venetian air.
Come in, my dear. You’ll catch your death out there.
The moon above the water is Love’s lamp.
These palaces are cursed with rising damp.
Do you suppose your father will come round?
I know he will. I have prepared the ground.
The things he said. Who knows? They might be true.
He wants my happiness and that is you.
Alas, a soldier’s wife is born to sorrow.
We are all packed and ready for tomorrow.
My ancient is assigned to care for you.
I wish I liked him better than I do.
I will appoint another in his place.
No, no my love. He cannot help his face.
Nor yet his fate. Let’s seal ours with a kiss.
Our love transcends all fates. Trust me in this.

My Fat Duchess

(Zurich)

So you're telling everybody that
you did me in and you never mention fat?

That portrait rendered by Fra Pandolph's hands
is all they know. I end with "There she stands."

Good show! Keep it up. I've lost some forty pounds
on lettuce and yak milk. Not as bad as it sounds.

It's such a shame the surgeon couldn't restore
that faint half flush. If it's money, there's plenty more.

Sweet, some things even a Swiss spa can't do.
I weigh four hundred pounds. I'm two of you.

I say you scorned my nine hundred years old name.
You should see their look of shock. The crime! The shame!

Don't gush it up too much. And must you imply
I was sweet up front and naughty on the sly?

I tell them you rode a mule about the place!
Rich. You on a mule! Can't keep a straight face.

So we'll keep the front up till I lose
the weight. And you're still shucking off the booze?

Of course, my pasta-plated chicadee--
although the count's munificence towards me

is tempting. The dear man is made of gold!
See you in June. Think slim. You are getting old.

Lance, you really are very good at this. I think you need to give the Specie your bank account numbers. There are going to be more wins travelling Levenwards.

John,

Thanks much for the kind words. I suppose I enjoy your thread more than any other on the sphere. It's the spontaneity of it, I think. And BTW none of this would be possible without your infectious love of poetry. (Hope that doesn't sound too sappy.)

Love, have you seen my blue pyjama pants?
Our marriage once had sparkle and romance.

The blue ones. Are they still in the machine?
I sometimes dream of all that might have been.

What’s that? The ones I’m looking for are blue.
My thoughts return to when our love was new.

My blue pyjamas... What’s the matter, dear?
I sometimes wonder if you know I’m here.

I know you’re here. I asked you if you knew...
Why don’t we make love like we used to do?

What, when we lay together hours and hours?
On silken sheets bestrewn with scarlet flowers...

And us together naked, sans pretence...
And fumes of joss-sticks overpowering sense...

And soft caressing tunes on mandolins...
Yes! Yes! But first – could you put out the bins?

I reckon there will be a big entry for this Comp. So here is a quick one to sink without trace.


In all the years I’ve been your wife
you’ve kept away from manly strife,
leaving me to fight the wars.
The tribe now calls you Her Indoors.

My manner’s gentle and refined
and though it may not call to mind
those bellicose old tribal gits
like hapless Vercingetorix

it has its uses, as you know.
I cook and clean and iron and sew.
I only wish that you had taught as
much to your two flame-haired daughters.

Fighting does not work for me.
I’d ask the Romans round for tea --
which might just be a teeny-weeny
bit more help to your Iceni.

In case you didn't see... (it's not far from where I live but it wasn't me; I ain't that old!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCmk7_wmVA8

Don't tell me you're looking at handbags again!
Oh, hush will you? You just don't 'get it', you men.
You bought that big black one; what happened to that?
I wrecked it.
But how?
Using it as a bat!
I saw those young yobbos on scoooters, and ran.
It wasn't the kind of reaction you plan...
My god, that was you? On the telly, I mean,
who clobbered the robbers right there at the scene?
Some bloke went and filmed it. They've caught them, I'm told.
I do wish he hadn't - I look really old.
So that's why you're searching on ebay for bags?
I am, so I don't need a husband who nags.
I'm sorry, my darling, you're quite right; I'll stop.
Go and buy an expensive one now, from a shop.

I really do take my hat off to her. Clearly, big savings could be made by disbanding her entire local Police force and spending some of its budget on equipping her with a shedload of handbags.

Like the poem, too, Jayne.