Stanley and Shirley –

Ground-level Stanley met twelfth-floor mountain-block Shirley.
Stanley had high aesthetic design product for low-brow content, his man-jotter for ball-point penned deepness, for his rainbows and unicorns, and Shirley, she wore tight psycho-babble and kept a mind full of ‘Love’.
No first sight thing, deeper than that cliché, proven in animal park visits, tangled kites, a fish tank for two, acclimatising guppies.
Shirley’s vistas; first past a doorman’s face, up, up and away left into sublime sweet-smelling espresso seat underneath sure-fire drop down menu on bowed shelving holding man-talk on Pelagianism.
Stanley mowed two lawns while his Philipino dusted, and swept-up his small change, etc.
Weeks and weeks and weakened resolve, Stanley and Shirley’s embarrassed skins flattening-out leather belt-buckle indentations, set new conjoined record, and Shirley was ‘No’ to smoke, deep-sleep, or for long.
Too old for the Girl’s Pill, but not a hair-thirst after boudoir yoga, but then, forgot earlier Feng-Shui afterthought dictate – ‘Nearer the bedroom door Stanley, because murderers are lazy types, exhaust after killing one’.
If only tepid glass tumbler could remember its last Ouija board experience, move independently of gravity’s pull, pour itself down lippy-pout, but ‘No’, so in darkness, Shirley’s finger feelers feel-out, moleskin diary, could stop there, but change in lusts, Stanley’s ‘words’ running up her red knuckled hand, pliers closing-in on Stanley’s breast, a story to dry her up.
Time be-gets routine, inventions in ‘Love’, so it’s Diary Dictaphone Stanley, Freud’s painter relative Shirley, didn’t see thoughtful connections, Art hadn’t pleased her in the past, and it was one hour after brandy, open fire, all that deep discourse with Stanley and the brandy.
A ‘Good Liar’ followed from any bottle, and here, then, this was so, while tartan-shirt Shirley counted flames in a grate, imagined twelve floors, its gravity, broken hearts, broken shelves, broken books, her and Stanley’s broken bones.
Their week of weaknesses killed of another day; Bill wasn’t settled.
No one said they’d ‘Be Forever!’, not the Pelagianists, nor a Hemingway moleskin, but a Police Officer had second thoughts standing very close to a weekend shift change.
Stanley and Shirley, conjoined again, with plastic-tie bracelets, a pairing at last, and tumbled down a Hampton’s mortuary chute.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in poetry & prose and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s