The Tale of My Sexy Singer Lover

[David Strugnell]

It began on a true winter's morning:
I was the most smart jobseeker around,
She was the most sexy singer.

She was my lover,
My sexy lover,
My singer.

We used to sleep so well together,
Back then.
We wanted to walk together, around the world,
We wanted it all.

But one morning, one true morning,
We decided to walk too much.
Together we spied Simon.
It was fresh, so fresh.

From that moment our relationship changed.
She grew so old.

And then it happened:

Oh no! Oh no!

She recognised Jan.
Alas, Jan!
My lover recognised Jan.
It was new, so new.

The next day I thought my hair had broken,
I thought my arms had burst into flames,
(But I was actually overreacting a little.)

But still, she is in my thoughts.
I think about how it all changed that morning,
That true winter's morning.

My arms... ouch!
When I think of that sexy singer,
That sexy singer and me.

[DieterM]

I cannot say I don't somehow like it. Which is long and twisted for saying I like it. Somehow. Sort of. The repetitions, the exagerations (emphatically repetitive use of "so"). They set an atmosphere and stuff. I guess, at least. Which amounts to saying that I haven't got the foggiest what you're writing about. And that I do like it. All the while asking myself if I've missed something – who is Simon? why did you spy on him? who is Jan? – or if I'm plain stupid or if I'm plain insane to not understand and still like your poetic input. Sole quibble, maybe so maybe: it starts in a quite prosey way. Yet, again, it stays rather prosey until the end, so what the heck, forget what I'm writing here. Just keep this: I quite like this, somehow, why?

[Haunted]

Sexy how? Being a stalker spying on old boyfriend?