If It Be That
If they actually wanted to be somewhere near,
they’d write messages that you’d want to hear.
Tweet like birds some loving words:
Sorry, forgive me sweet stuff
without you, life’s not enough.
If they truly loved you as much as they claim,
it’d somehow be written with drops of rain,
words that streak down windowpanes
like: ‘oh, matron’, ‘cor, blimey’,
‘get away’ and ‘twice nightly’.
If they craved your company they’d lately lost,
they’d whittle icicle nibs to compose on frost
songs that smack like a heavyweight.
Revolvers that shoot pepper
while Father writes sad letters.
If they missed you more each passing hour,
their minds would blossom bright flowers.
Ideas that shake, with echoes quake,
Avon not believing Blake
bring cataclysmic heartache.
If they’d really reach out, huh, and I’ll be there,
they’d switch tumble driers up to maximum care
to scrutinise all those revolutions
when sloppy X marked the spot
where love’s tongue tied its knots.
If they'd weep and miss your going out to play,
they’d suck froth and foam from steamy latte
with no regard for burning mouths.
Become a purring tigress,
spreading legs like a virus.
If now passion honestly drives a burning need
for all-nighters, lusting as wild animal greed
devours bursting sacks of spilling seed,
why then this long pregnant pause
at hearing Brutus too had cause?
If they wished to see your face this side of hell,
they’d speedboat sorcerers to wishing wells,
watch spray shape love’s eroded shores,
recall all hard pebbles cast
ripples that return the past.
So sad but true, we’ve some better things to do
than answer, yes fool, I could make time for you
if these riddling titles you explained full too.
We might sit back, grin and clap,
Iago…yes, but only if it be that.