GROUPIE

So you've finally snared a Rock Star!

Your friends are envious and hope

he possibly has an associate or two

that you could introduce them to.

Suddenly you're a front page babe

in the tabloids and glossy mags.

They clamour to interview you to ask

for every detail about your past.

All the attention goes to your head

and you play it right to the hilt.

A role model it seems you've become.

Of all the groupies, you're number one.

You flirt with the camera as if it's a lover,

you smile, pout and entice.

'Look who I'm with!' you appear to be saying

as you pass the lens, luscious hips swaying.

Then at the pinnacle of reflected fame,

you're gutted to find yourself ditched.

They say a seductress more exotic

has turned his head with promises erotic!

'Why?' you cry, as your world tumbles down

and humiliation sets in.

But to everyone else it's obvious why.

Your connection with him was based on a lie.

In the beginning he needed a trophy,

and it seemed you would fit the bill.

Your looks, your hair and body were great,

just what he needed as media bait.

But then your 'off' days began to challenge

his vision of female perfection.

When things like PMT kicked in,

all you wanted was a quiet night in.

You couldn't be bothered with makeup then,

nor dressing to stoke his ego.

'Surely I am entitled,' you said,

'To sometimes just be in the years ahead!'

This act of rebellion scared him to death.

For his public image he feared.

What if someone should drop by?

Of humiliation he would surely die.

No one must ever see his Goddess

in her unadorned (flawed) human state.

His enemies for certain would seize the day

and his credibility be swept away.

Then in public he could never again show his face.

He'd be forced to relocate

to some obscure island where in exile he'd dwell

and live life unknown - his personal hell!

Surely you never believed such a man

would love you for who you are?

It isn't that he's intrinsically bad,

just more, I'd say, than a little sad.

To stardom he's a phobic slave,

without it what would he be?

Just another ordinary guy in the street

who no one particularly wants to meet.

It's groupies like you who raised him up

to the dizzy heights of fame.

So it's you, not he, who possess real power.

You could end his career within the hour!



TITLES

Ode to Jonathan


My weakness began
on The Voyage of the Damned.
Damned? How?
Because that's when
I first saw you.
Human Nature being what it is,
Consuming Passions soon took hold
of a wayward heart.
It was exquisite torture,
far greater than any inflicted
by the Pirates of the Caribbean.

Were you aware
I followed you to Brazil, where
Angel-like, your white wings
lifted a Soul from mediocrity
to soar with you?
Unnoticed,
your Bride of the Wind
raced with you across blue sky,
way above the gathering
storm clouds,
into a Multi-million Pound Fantasy.

Finally alone with you
in Peter Pan's Never Never Land,
sharing the ecstasy
of a Haunted Honeymoon.
Haunted by if only's and
what if's, in a mirage
too intoxicating to ever leave.

Crazier even
than The Adventures of Baron Munchhausen,
this haunting virtual reality
has brought  Regeneration
to a jaded life.
The mental Stigmata are healed now.
This has truly been
What a Girl Wants!



  

FORBIDDEN LOVE

You came to me when I despaired

Of another day of life,

When tears of sorrow drowned my heart

In a sea of bitter strife.

You took my hand and led the way

To a safe and sunny shore,

And there you wrapped me in your love

Until I hurt no more.

Since then you've become a part of me,

Much more than guide and friend.

Without you I would cease to be,

Like a novel at its end.

Although your touch is cold as ice,

It burns me to the core

In a raging fire of hidden desire,

Defying self-control.

None must know, I cannot tell

Of our forbidden love,

For we're as different, you and I,

As a moonbeam from a dove.

If they knew, our love they'd scorn

And would fail to understand,

Because they'll never see us

Walking hand in hand.

I'm sometimes needing you so much

My heart will surely break,

But all I have around me

Are people on the make.

And so I make excuses

To quietly slip away,

And travel down the South Coast road

To Bracklesham half way.

I take the familiar turning

Into narrow country lane,

And follow it o'er desolate moor

'Til I'm nearly 'home' again.

When at my destination's end

The tiny church appears,

I wander among the gravestones

Stained with ancient tears.

As I reach that special one

Emotions overflow.

I feel compelled to hide my face,

Can't let such yearning show.

Before I leave, though, I cannot help

But hug it close to me

Because it's borne your name, my love,

Since nineteen-thirty-three!

Seventy-eight years have passed since then

And your body's all but dust,

Yet still you're here beside me now,

In you I place my trust.

So when it's time for me to join you

Beyond the Borderlands,

I'll have no fear, just urgent need

To be safely in your hands.

GIRLS' NIGHT OUT

'Never again!' you say.
'Never,
never,
never again
will I bare my Soul,
give my all to a man.
Because what does he do with my precious gift?
He uses it against me,
turns it into some grotesque
piranha-like thing
that insidiously eats away
at my identity
until I no longer recognise myself!'

Here, the tears begin to flow,
so I fight my way through
the Saturday night crowds
to the bar
and buy you yet another vodka.

You down it in one,
almost choking yourself,
then slam the empty glass
down onto the table.
How it remains in one piece, I'll never know!
A little calmer now
(or more than a little inebriated),
'What is wrong with me, Ygraine?' you ask,
mascara cascading down your cheeks.
'He was so perfect.
We were so perfect together.
He was my ultimate sexy Adonis.
All I ever wanted was "Happy ever after".
Is that really too much to ask?
He said it was what he wanted too.
Why, then, do I get the distinct impression
that all I'm fit for these days is:
clearing his hair from the shower plug hole;
ensuring the fridge is well stocked with lager
just in case his mates spring a surprise visit;
and gathering his dirty laundry
from its increasingly familiar place, namely
strewn all over the bedroom floor?
And now,
just as I honestly believed
things couldn't get any worse,
he didn't even notice I'm wearing a new dress
or that I've coloured my hair!'
You begin to wail like a banshee.
'I've been demoted from object of desire,
to invisible drudge!' you scream in frustration,
your face turning a deeper shade of purple.
People are beginning to stare.
Feeling embarrassed,
I practically carry you to the Ladies.
It seems I may have over-prescribed the medicinal vodka!

An hour or so has passed now.
With makeup re-applied
and ego bandaged,
you are just about ready to face the world again.
After an enormous amount of coaxing
I've finally managed to talk you into
giving men a wide berth for a while
(for my sake as much as yours).
You've sent him a text,
making it crystal clear
that you're no longer prepared to be his doormat
and you never want to see him again.

Heads held high,
we stride up to the bar
(well, one of us does
the other still needs a bit of support!)
and order the most expensive,
most exotic cocktails we can invent
- as a kind of celebratory toast
to your newly single status.
Now we hurl ourselves onto the dance floor,
determined to salvage the rest
of what was intended to be
a fun girls' night out.

Leaving you for a few moments
to go and finish my drink,
I return to find you
hanging on the arm of some guy,
gazing adoringly into his eyes.
Suddenly catching sight of me,
a huge smile spreads across your face.
'Ygraine, come and meet Dave!' you slur.
And I notice his hand
caressing your right buttock.

I am speechless!!

CARRINGTON

I met you once,in that no man's land
that hangs somewhere between
sleeping and waking.
I sensed, rather than saw you,
physically felt the wild pounding
of your desperate heart
electrocuting my own aura.
You were a vortex of nervous anxiety,
frantically searching for something.
Or someone?

I could almost - but not quite
recognise you.
Those obsessive compulsive mannerisms
seemed somehow familiar.
Then I saw you,
a tall, emaciated, boyish figure
with unflattering cropped hair;
an unhappy lost Soul
wandering around in circles,
totally alone
in a dreary place of shadows.
Yes, of course I knew you then
and instinctively reached out to comfort you,
but you remained oblivious to my presence,
were too intent on your manic quest.

Dora,
(I apologise for using the birth name you so despised,
but it somehow seems appropriate now.)
I know who you've been so desperately trying to find all these years,
that you truly believe he was your inspiration
and without him
you were nothing.
But, Dora, you were the talented one.
Those stunning works of art
we prize so highly were the offspring
of your beautiful complex mind,
not his presence in your life.
Your paintings would still
have enriched this World,
even if you'd never met
this much older, homosexual man
who became the sole reason for your existence.

Dora,
how could you love him this much,
while being forced to watch his young boyfriends
come and go, always excluding you
from their intimate glances?
It must have torn you to shreds.
Yet you stood by him unflinchingly,
more than willing to put him back together
when his affairs inevitably fell apart.
But who was there for you, Dora,
when the next Beau came along
and he'd disappear,
often for weeks at a time
while you starved half to death,
terrified to move from the phone
just in case he should call?
But at those times he never did,
did he?
There has never been a nobler
more faithful heart than yours.
And he really didn't deserve it.

As I sit here today
gazing at your portrait of Lytton,
I see such heart-felt adoration
in every brush stroke;
the differing hues of his skin, hair and beard
glowing, as though bathed in your undying love.
But above all,
those soulful eyes say it all.
In their depths, I see your own
beautiful highly evolved Spirit.
Dora, you were as close to perfection
as a human being could ever come.

Sadly, when cancer claimed him,
and you took your own life
because living without him
became too much to bear,
this World was robbed
of a shining light.
There has been an extra cloud
across the Sun since then.
But at least we still have
a part of you in these brilliant masterpieces
you have left behind.
And, Dora, you are recognised now.
Here in the twenty-first century,
your unique talent is finally appreciated.
That shy, sexually-confused eccentric
who always faded into the background
and was so often overlooked;
that self-deprecating person
who only rarely signed her work
because she honestly believed
it was 'not much cop'
has become an icon of the Art World.
Dora, two of your pieces are exhibited
in the Tate today!

For your sake, I hope
that you eventually find peace,
because I know you will never find
who you are looking for.
You are destined for a much Higher
Plane of existence now,
and have evolved way above
we mere mortals.
And when you can find the strength
to believe in yourself
as you believed in him,
those restricting shadows will melt away
like early morning dew,
leaving you free to take your rightful place
among the ascended Bright Ones.

Then, when I gaze up into the sky
on a clear night
and see an extra radiant Star
that wasn't there before,
twinkling in colours of the rainbow,
I'll know for sure it's you.
And the following golden dawn will give way
to the most glorious sunny day.

Dora Carrington,
if you'll only allow it,
your light will illuminate us all.......