You’re Nothing But A Naked Architect – Go and Put Some Pants On!

(A really badly written poem I wrote about another one of my ex-lovers. We'll call him PBA which stands for the Peckham Based Architect).

A card
His card, thrust into my face
Advertises his services

The naked architect:
“Come along any time of day. All you do is pay”

I phone his number, without even dialing it.
I find him smooth talking and refined in a way that nearly blows my mind away.
I have never really met his kind.

He invites me round for tea, in Peckham-on-the-sea.
I confess to my architect that I have no money.
And he says, “Don’t worry young Northern lass. I don’t want you for your brass. Take your knickers off. There’s no need for cash”.

Feeling crass I go and visit him,
Without even traveling there.
I find myself in Peckham-on-the-sea.
A tourist for the day.

I take my camera, like all the rest.
I want a memento for my wall.

He pours some gin.
He is naked – totally naked.

I knock the gin back and say,
“You’re naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked. You’re exactly what your card says. You’re a naked architect. Would you, perhaps, do me a favour and go and put some pants on”.

“No!”
He pours another gin.
At some point soon the room begins to spin.

I find him on the ceiling
I find him on the floor
I find him on the wall
Then I find him leading me through the hall,
And up the stairs,
Until, at last he takes me into his work room.

I demand he puts some pants on.

“No!”
We fight together, roll around on the floor
Until, at last I find him, in me.

He’s so fucking big; he nearly ruptures my internal organs
He plays it well, to the point where I can’t tell anymore.
What zone am I in now?
I’m no longer in a comfort zone,
Or, a pain zone.
Instead it’s a rapturous applause zone
The stuff that standing ovations are made out of

It’s opera, it’s high art. It’s a Brian Sewell moment.
But, what it isn’t is a night out in Batley, at the Variety Club, dancing in white stiletto shoes around handbags on the dance floor.

This is a squeezing grapes in-between your toes moment, a making wine in France moment. This is some bloody FUCK!

We did it on the floor, under the bed, in the bath, in a cupboard, in an enchanted forest – the fairies and the elves watched that one – they thought it was highly entertaining, on the kitchen table, on a balcony, standing up, lying down, spinning around. We even did on the walsas, on Peckham pier. We tried it on a washing line – but that didn’t work

We even had a go on the ironing board, but my gigantic hips broke that. So, I’ll have to buy him another one. That’s the least I can do.

When we had finished
He threw me out of the window, and in the direction of a busy main road
I could hear the on coming traffic; all aggressively tooting their horns, breaks screeching, sirens screaming.
I panic, but then he catches me – the naked architect
I find myself falling backwards, and into his arms – the naked architect

Where did the naked architect come from?
I tell him he’s a magician, at which point he vanishes – the naked architect.

I think he went to put some pants on.