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5: Annie Hayter

14/11/2016

0 Comments

 
nan watching Barry Manilow clips on youtube at 2am on a Wednesday
 
your cheeks puff to spheres only rivalled by globes
you’ve been all over, crooning to ladies and gentleman
on every continent, breaking hearts with the blink of a twinkling,
squinting eye.
 
were you singing just to me Barry? or was it my dream,
listening to you, on a beach in Brazil, my tan matching yours
bronze as a medal, or one of your awards that line the shelves
of your mind, you gazing at me with the adoration, like I was
a crème brulee or a particularly beautiful microphone,
or Farrah Fawcett, risen from the grave with poodle curls still
intact and bouncing.
 
none of those other singers have a hold on me- Bacharach couldn’t compare
Bob Dylan can bog off, none of them, have that intangible,
glossy gorgeous tone you capture, in your skin and your voice,
oh how I long for you to hold me in your lightly muscled arms
I don’t mind the surgery or the Botox, no one’s perfect,
(apart from you that is) you are my idol, love, the golden calf I worshipped to a
syncopated beat, (of your latest album).
 
in my wildest fantasy,
we ride through a desert together, you in deepest black, I cool,
but elegant in white. we contemplate the sunset. I massage your bunions.
 you kiss my thrombosis, we linger in the sand, enjoying the pleasure
of each other’s company. I beg you to sing me a song, you,
embarrassed, glance away.
 
you can’t deny me anything though, you naughty boy
you begin one of my favourites,
this one certainly is for me, I am  a lucky gal,
your easy glide from loud to soft, the lyrical joy of your vibrato
sends quivers down my jelly thighs, Bazzer
I know you’re a far off celebrity, a man
destined for men better than the likes of me, and my
double hip replacement  but 
Bazzer, be mine?
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