Polythene Bag Blues

Black polythene bag sailing the skies,
Tell me little about you.
Spill your secrets like fries,
Shooting out from their paper bag.
Your obsidian wrinkles don’t have nothing on you,
You wizened old hag.

How does it feel like to fly?
I wonder.
You don’t even have wings,
But you crest the thermals with the raptors,
Sharing your airspace with nobility.
Even the grungy vultures add you in their chapters.

I feel sorry for you,
Trapped on a pylon,
Flapping forlornly in the whistling wind,
Like a scarf made of nylon.
Forgotten,
Tattered like a madman’s wig.

You were once the pick of the bunch,
Adaptable and multifunctional,
Forgive the tautology,
But who would have thought?
That you would be let go.
“You’re rubbish” is what is being taught.

Poly bag,
It’s not like you’re bad or anything,
You’re just no longer wanted.
The Louis Vuittons and the Jimmy Choos,
Even the cheap fakes are preferred to you.
Their insipid designs they choose.
But it’s cool.

You held far more important things,
Than make up and fake jewellery.
State secrets,
That only you and the chamber pot exchange giggles over.
I know right!
You’ve lived a grand life.

So fly you polythene bag,
Remember you’re not a poly thing,
And that the names will fade.
They take their mortality too seriously,
But your half-life transcends these petty organics.
Bon voyage mon ami!

© Sena Frost 2015

I Remember

I remember,
The slinky feel of your fingers between mine,
The warmth of your crushed breasts against my chest (actually my midriff but that’s fine:-)).
The flowery presence of your perfume,
The breathy warmth of your whispers.
The kinky freshness of your uncombed hair (I can’t help but dig in sometimes!),
Erotically alive with a mind of its own.

I remember,
The warm constriction of your arms when you hug me from behind,
The chime of your voice ringing merrily away (I hate it when you just can’t stop talking!),
The Cheshire smile waving away,
The taste of your mouth during our long convoluted kisses,
Creamy and fruity,
Like the exotic tang of the mango.
Your figure waiflike,
Slender and pleasing to the eye,
Hour glass figure leaning against a pear (I know I know you do squats),
Eyes eternally wistful,
Blurred by your lashes overlapping.

I remember,
The tautness of your nipple,
The claws of desire trailing down my back,
The barely audible wanton gasps,
When we make love (yes!),
Biting your lips,
The tremor at the height of your ecstasy,
Giddy highs of our love intertwined in rising plumes of passions,
The sinfully sweet pleasure (because I become you looking at me from upside down).

I remember,
How you bend and break,
Snappy and churlish,
Explosive and expletive (euphemism for bitchy actually).
The fragility of your human façade going up in a conflagration.
It’s okay,
I understand.
We can’t be perfect everyday,
And that’s the beauty of it.

I read somewhere,
That the best substitute for love is memory,
So if I choke up on my words,
Or become too weird to comprehend,
Just know that,
I remember…

© Sena Frost 2015

Someday I’ll Forget

Someday I’ll forget,
That your favourite colour is blue,
That you like fish and seafood,
The scent of the fresh rain.

Someday I’ll forget,
That you hate goat meat,
You dislike getting out of bed,
For the simple reason of bathing.

Someday I’ll forget,
I was just an option,
The fall guy,
The brother from another mother.

Someday I’ll forget,
The smell of your hair,
The glow of your skin in the moonlight,
The warmth in your eyes.

Someday I’ll forget,
Your two left feet,
That crazy tinkering you call laughter,
And your frostbitten anger.

Someday I’ll forget,
You,
But I will never forget,
The way you made me feel.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015