Panting Up River, Getting Down With Shitty Creep

I think I let you take me because up until that point, you seemed not taken by me.

So many times I felt guilty for feeling let down in your company.
I distinctly recall stiff hugs, plain-faced Janes by your side.
Except that one that wrapped your arms around her, you seemed to take in stride.

I think I let you take me because up to that point, I was never taken so rough.

I somewhat thought it novelty, but I do know how to make love.
Your heavy, dark, thick, lush and weighty touch and tug
Your quickening breath far above my face, oddly nowhere near enough.


I think I let you take me because up to that point, you seemed not taken by me.

Nor taken by anything, really – lack-lustre, miserable and gloomy –
Darling, like Leonard Cohen, I tried for us in this way to be freed.
But you’re so locked up tight, armor turns inward
Pierces heart, colds and ices your warmth center.

I know I let you take me because up to that point, I was not taken by you.

Fear intrigued, aloof spooked, closed off, un-feeling, brute
And I blamed you for taking, but realized in the making
love, my hands on your back, on your ass did move “true.”

Because remember how I said I couldn’t touch George Clooney guy just for the sake of touching?

That I needed to feel my hands guided by the “who” the man was/is inside, and unless I can do that – no fucking?

I know I let you take me because up to that point, I was still sleeping
I had forgotten you were robotic and how little you thought of me.
So when I lay my thin body next to you, I wasn’t initiating a thing!
She said “you put yourself on a silver platter, you were surely saying something!”

All the times I spent with him, I never said a thing.
He did not listen, so I was resigned to believing his incapacity for hearing.

So what would I be trying to say as I lay down beside him in the morning?
Perhaps just “be” …?
That I know you more than you know me?
That compared to your women, I make love superbly?

In the moment he exploded into making me a mother

Sure, love could be love, more like his sister feels for her brother.
More like an enemy he treated me in his non-negotiated release
In this there is spite, there is being mean and being unseen,
In this there is no meaning, there is no lover, just disease.

No peace, just fighting to feel something for himself with a stranger.
Off Tottenham Court Road, down on Gower, South of Euston, up from the river…

I call you a creep, but some beauty in you I have seen – strains.
Selfishness I can laugh off, but immovable numbness in you – drains.

Panting up river, getting down with a shitty creep
Was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.

Getting your dick wet in a stream of unconscious goo —
Tell me now, darling, was it good for you?

© Sylvie Hill 2013