bad dream
stumbling to the bathroom
drunk or minor stroke?
© Rachel Green September 2025
How sweet the scent of summer's Timothy
and soft the pollen falling from the tips
my mind detached and dreaming of the sea
while my skin is bruised and kneaded by your lips.
Less pleasant is the smell of your Brylcreem
and even now the stink of your Old Spice
cologne still clogs my nostrils in the dark
of nightmare lands where you still live, though once or twice
I found the will to twist away and bark
"I have to go - my father will await
his Friday fish and chips from Village Fryer,"
and with a shove or kick you make me late.
But mostly I will let you violate
my teenage flesh for I am Catholic apostate.
© Rachel Green September 2025
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