04-13-2012, 02:29 AM
Edit 1a
Fish fry fantasy, arms bare brown, slinking out from gingham sleeves;
blotched in dots, like mad-red henna, a hotch potch pattern of hot fat burns.
Yet she smiles and blows away the wayward flicks of steam-damp strands;
bands of beaded, baubled plastic, stick her oil-slick black hair down.
Glistening, listening, three times, once. Once again then twice with peas,
Five pounds twenty, please, thanks, bye now. Who's next, who's next? Me, it's me.
Yes pet? Sorry: now...what was it, without chips, you want it wrapped?
Regular or Moby Dick? Who cares? I don't. She's looking through me to my soul.
Fathoms deep and leagues below, I can hear her siren song;
and I can not make choices quickly...her eyes are taking all my thoughts,
Her wet-gloss lips are moving, moving.. but the words are talking fish.
Through the hiss of watered oil, the rush of steam, the clattered sieve,
the traffic noise in open doorway, the blast of air that 's welcomed in;
nicotined and petrol tainted but soon assailed by vinegar vapours,
perfume of the chip-shop girl. Oh how I came to know and love her,
how I breathed her salty scent, how I yearned to press her to me
A single fry between our lips. Salivating , wanting, waiting...scraps,
enough to last a lifetime, on demand with Coke thrown in.
Chip shop girl I long to know you, long to squeeze your haddock hips,
long to lick your sea-bed places.....oh, the hell. Make that with chips.
Tectak
2012
Edit 2 (for erthona)
Wet fish dreams
Fish fry fantasy, arms bare brown, slinking out from gingham sleeves;
blotched in dots, like mad-red henna, a hotch-potch pattern of hot fat burns.
Yet she smiles and blows away the wayward flicks of steam-damp strands;
bands of beaded, baubled plastic, stick her oil-slick black hair down.
Glistening, listening, three times, once. Once again then twice with peas,
Five pounds twenty, please, thanks, bye now. Who's next, who's next? Me, it's me.
Yes pet? Sorry: now...what was it, without chips, you want it wrapped?
Regular or Moby Dick? Who cares? I don't. She's looking through me;
Soul deep , fathoms deep, leagues below, I can hear her siren song.
I can not make choices quickly...her eyes are taking all my thoughts,
Her wet-gloss lips are moving, moving.. but the words all sound like fish.
Through the hiss of watered oil, the rush of steam, the clattered sieve,
the traffic noise in open doorway, the blast of air that 's welcomed in;
nicotined and petrol tainted but soon assailed by vinegar vapours,
perfume of the chip-shop girl. Oh how I came to know and love her,
how I breathed her salty scent; how I yearned to press her to me,
a single fry between our lips. Salivating , wanting, waiting...
Scraps enough to last a lifetime, on demand with Coke thrown in.
Chip shop girl I long to know you, long to squeeze your haddock hips,
long to lick your sea-bed places.....oh, the hell. Make that with chips.
Tectak
2012
Fish fry fantasy, arms bare brown, slinking out from gingham sleeves;
blotched in dots, like mad-red henna, a hotch potch pattern of hot fat burns.
Yet she smiles and blows away the wayward flicks of steam-damp strands;
bands of beaded, baubled plastic, stick her oil-slick black hair down.
Glistening, listening, three times, once. Once again then twice with peas,
Five pounds twenty, please, thanks, bye now. Who's next, who's next? Me, it's me.
Yes pet? Sorry: now...what was it, without chips, you want it wrapped?
Regular or Moby Dick? Who cares? I don't. She's looking through me to my soul.
Fathoms deep and leagues below, I can hear her siren song;
and I can not make choices quickly...her eyes are taking all my thoughts,
Her wet-gloss lips are moving, moving.. but the words are talking fish.
Through the hiss of watered oil, the rush of steam, the clattered sieve,
the traffic noise in open doorway, the blast of air that 's welcomed in;
nicotined and petrol tainted but soon assailed by vinegar vapours,
perfume of the chip-shop girl. Oh how I came to know and love her,
how I breathed her salty scent, how I yearned to press her to me
A single fry between our lips. Salivating , wanting, waiting...scraps,
enough to last a lifetime, on demand with Coke thrown in.
Chip shop girl I long to know you, long to squeeze your haddock hips,
long to lick your sea-bed places.....oh, the hell. Make that with chips.
Tectak
2012
Edit 2 (for erthona)
Wet fish dreams
Fish fry fantasy, arms bare brown, slinking out from gingham sleeves;
blotched in dots, like mad-red henna, a hotch-potch pattern of hot fat burns.
Yet she smiles and blows away the wayward flicks of steam-damp strands;
bands of beaded, baubled plastic, stick her oil-slick black hair down.
Glistening, listening, three times, once. Once again then twice with peas,
Five pounds twenty, please, thanks, bye now. Who's next, who's next? Me, it's me.
Yes pet? Sorry: now...what was it, without chips, you want it wrapped?
Regular or Moby Dick? Who cares? I don't. She's looking through me;
Soul deep , fathoms deep, leagues below, I can hear her siren song.
I can not make choices quickly...her eyes are taking all my thoughts,
Her wet-gloss lips are moving, moving.. but the words all sound like fish.
Through the hiss of watered oil, the rush of steam, the clattered sieve,
the traffic noise in open doorway, the blast of air that 's welcomed in;
nicotined and petrol tainted but soon assailed by vinegar vapours,
perfume of the chip-shop girl. Oh how I came to know and love her,
how I breathed her salty scent; how I yearned to press her to me,
a single fry between our lips. Salivating , wanting, waiting...
Scraps enough to last a lifetime, on demand with Coke thrown in.
Chip shop girl I long to know you, long to squeeze your haddock hips,
long to lick your sea-bed places.....oh, the hell. Make that with chips.
Tectak
2012
... a truly lofty romance