The grass is always greener

When my first marriage split up, I went to live in and around Vauxhall for some three years and it was here that I made a lot of friends on the gay scene that flourished there (sadly all the clubs are being closed down by developers).

This was a little tribute I wrote to that wonderful, party focused culture that let me in as a wide eyed, traumatised divorcee and helped me on the path to being happy once again.

 The grass is always greener

‘I wish I was gay’, sighed Paul in frustration,

As he walked to work past Vauxhall Station,

Whilst revellers in the morning light,

Emerged from clubs, to find their sight

Briefly blinded by the rising sun,

But moods undimmed by the day to come,

They’re home to shower in luxury flats,

Then upstairs, where they draw the slats,

Down a last glass and slip into bed

With the man of the morning; Tom, Dick or Fred,

Casually, gracefully loving to screw

Seizing the moment, what else should one do,

Nights over, days come, so why shouldn’t they?

‘Oh how I wish, I wish I was gay’

Said Paul to himself as he sighed once again,

Poor man, so picked by his chosen hen,

He’s known to pass many hours at home,

Sitting passive and still like a sad shrunken gnome,

As Lucy, his woman, once lover, now wife

With nagging and pestering, crushes his life

Sweet dear, not her fault, she just wants that drive

That lit up their bedroom, once kept them alive,

But it’s faded, it’s gone, it’s over, no more,

She’s barely hit thirty; her sex life’s a bore,

No more swept off her feet and thrown on the bed,

French knickers torn off and hung by a thread

As she and her man  thrashed all around,

And neighbours phoned up, to complain at the sound

Of ecstasy echoing, loud through the wall,

Skin to skin in their sin, pressed up against Paul

Or her war-cry, her call, as she starts to arrive

‘Faster you bastard, oh fuck me with drive!’

Now, humdrum and glum, familiar routine

Has worn down their loving, took what had been

A consummate passion and ground it to dust,

They give into X factor instead of their lust,

Hours watching football, and none on foreplay,

‘Bet this sort of thing doesn’t happen to gays’

Mused Paul as he walked, down at heart cross the bridge,

Regretting a love life as warm as a fridge,

One more soul sadly caught in the endless monotony

Of middle aged,

Middle class

And loveless


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