There must come

a time in everybody’s life when they are hit

by the dawning realisation

that they never have been, and never will be,

the go to fantasy figure

in someone else’s dreams.

 

The dark brooding hero who pulls his off- white trilby down

over his eyes, who can blow smoke out his nose

like a fire breathing dragon pumping merrily away

as a thousand workers shovel Welsh coal into its lungs, and all the time

cause the damsel in distress to flutter her eye lids,

heavy with mascara and her lips

softly painted ruby red, in honour of Judy Garland

as she leans in to kiss her own private fantasy figure,

the hero unawares.

 

The Glamour girl, far too impressed with her own reflection

and perfectly manicured nails that grip like vices into the backs

all the men she meets, studies her own true worth

and knows she has nothing to conquer in the bedroom

apart from the unease that her latest lover is thinking

only of his first true love who sits at home waiting

patiently for the day

that the man she met on holiday the previous summer

whilst walking down a cobbled narrow lane

in Cornwall, the seagulls overhead mimicking her voice,

might be there again when she searches innocently

through the antique parade and historic remains.

 

All is lost when it comes to the realisation

that you are never going to be the knight in shining armour,

no Lancelot killing time, for you don’t wish to hurt

your king.

 

I have never been the fantasy in someone else’s head,

no suave or sophistication under the shabbyness I portray.

Nothing says never been kissed in a dream

more than not caring anymore for your state of health

and never bothering with making a good impression

for that person to blow you

a kiss when they snore at midnight.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015