His hand holds no beer,
Lips tightly secured
Like his drain pipe jeans.
Hair sprayed Androgyny straight and flowing
An indie Rabbit
In a Rock and Roll cage.
Insecure and neurotic
He must be worth knowing.
She beheld his form and habitually fixed her hair
His response was a fringe flick and smile
The musk of Indie Music hung thick in the air.

Away from Dozza and Razza and Hoppo
Slicked back hair, and shirts adorned in fluro.
Her comic book eyes
Peered through half closed venetians.
Dancing like a puppet to his words,
Each name drop a string.
Her eyes well rehearsed in surprise
Tracking his verbose undulations.
Every second he doesn’t make a move sees her interest growing,
Her eyes follow his voice as it descends down low.
The encore reaching its routine crescendo,
He whispers a false promise of taking it slow.

Arty, Bohemian
Wrapped in each other.
No one liners or charm
He speaks of Chaucer or Morrisey or Rene Magritte,
His mother,
Ex lovers.
Masculine archetypes were not this boy’s ride
While her voice spoke of control
Sexual intent those eyes did belie
The absence of bravado leaves her completely at ease
A world away from the common pub sleaze.










At least with the idiots, the sleazes you know it’s about sex,
No masquerade of life and connection and having respect.
While others are breaking out of the room
He’s breaking eggs for breakfast.
When he doesn’t call
She knows he’s an emotional tease
The night of faux empathy, contrived passion
Makes you the worst kind of sleaze.

The sleaze tag attached
All confidence lost,
A vague popularity
Consumed by the brutal dating paradox.
Oratory barbed wire laid down by indie girl scorned
Again he’s confined to the corner of the room.
Now forlorn scarcely risking a glimpse out the side of his glasses
Its 2.AM and he looks like he needs saving
Cue a flood of leather clad, romantic advances.