JOE: a prose poem by Serge Neptune

In the cotton-white 58th hall of the National Gallery, a wide rectangular frame surrounding a scene of Satyrs tearing each other apart while soaked up in drunkenness.  I ask if this resembles in any way a typical English pub. After a fortuitous change of subject, I find out you like big dogs and you’ve got one brother or maybe two, you’re quite fond of Games of Thrones. You carry with pride your Southampton scruffiness. On a day when January’s frost clings firmly to the streets of Streatham Hill you take the chance to show me the house. Your single bed appears to be rickety, noisy and too tight for the both of us. You enquire about the possibility of watching while other men mess me around. You lurk inside and leave your scented trail but without asking. You’re leaving for Egypt in few days and that will be the last I will ever see of you. It’s a long embarrassing wait before your Scottish flatmate terminates his shower.