Pan in middle age

je ne t’aime plus, mon amour
je ne t’aime plus, tout les jour

Pan in middle age

a seducer, a child-thief
now greying, jobless and loveless
sleeps in a tiny room, the rent-free cupboard of an obliging friend
his bed covers once stained crimson by virgins’ blood,
(witness to the sweet thrust and die of lost innocence)
show a faint rust on threadbare
fading flags of glory,

Pan works up a crooked grin,
(add toothless to his catalogue)
an outworn traveller, who has found respite in a former colony,
in a city bar
a good time is a cheap bottle of piss
his hips shadow a swagger and
in the semi darkness
he charms with a worn stub of chat up patter,
a whiff of Chaucer,
he earns a smile,
and feels he is not so very far from Ratcliffe Highway after all.

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Comments

  • robtclements
    robtclementsalmost 7 years ago

    He has his thoughts
    he has his life
    He has his past of pleasure seized
    & shared

    Is he our anger?
    or our desire?

    Or both?

  • Our desire … but sidelined.

    – TheWidowChing

  • robtclements
    robtclementsalmost 7 years ago

    In exploration, inspiration & hope

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