Name Of Love

In the Name of Love

Once (when we were together)
I called Mark, Ali.

He didn't hear, thank god;
He was a precious man,
Still is -
A categorical 'nice guy'.

Later, with Ali, I called him Mark,
It was a nagging “Maaark,”
And he heard.

At least it wasn't during sex.

Now (with neither)
I don't really mind what anyone's called:
Sweetie, Baby, Honey, Darling, Lollypop, Hedgehog -
It's all nice.

Apart from when it isn't;
Those 'sickly', 'saccharine' 'terms of endearment'
Used to nauseate Ali.

Sorry, Ali (I hope your life is more savoury now).

Recently I remembered my own name,
Which – frankly - is a relief after so many years
Of forgetting how to address myself.

I'm still working on making self-love
Feel as fulfilling as being fucking adored
And adorably fucked though,
To be honest.

The problem is:
Every Tom, Dick or Harry will do me,
But not just any Tom, Dick or Harry will do.

Harry's good 'on paper', bad 'in the sack';
Tom's good 'in the sack', bad 'on paper'.

And Dick's just a dick
Who loved me so hard
And then screwed me over.

He penetrated me so deeply
That I had to leave the country
To get him from under my skin.

Though of course I hoped he'd care
(Come, galloping to Gatwick,
Like a lovesick stallion),
I didn't board an aircraft
To get under his skin
(Aggravated eczema and all),
That I used to stroke,
And rub medicated lotion into.

No, I did not go to Timbuktu
To 'get over you'.

But I was elevated,
Over your raised tones
And your low blows.

And,
Though my heart's still up in the air
(It used to be floating on air),
I did get 40,000 feet over you.

From 40,000 feet you didn't even exist!
Did you feel that,
Your temporary disappearance?

I didn't even tell the police you were gone.

Good thing too, because -
Though I've never seen you in Enfield,
Or at all in London
Since I hit the tarmac (running),
You're back.

Would've been a false alarm
And the police don't need time wasters,
Not with all the fake terror threats
And Jack the Lads to contend with.

So I got you out from under my skin,
But now you're in my hair;
If won't embrace your brush,
Please get out -
If not for my sake, for Pete's.