The Ultimate Truth.

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My poems are a fiction
that I’m brave enough to share,
the truth would be quite different
if I should desire to dare.
I see the story now
the way it would unfold.
I’ll try now to explain
if I may be so bold.

Upon the bed I’d lie,
a bar between my feet.
My wife giggling helplessly
as I lay there on the sheet.

The bar tied to my ankles
and then to a small hook
that’s embedded in the ceiling
if you should care to look.

The rope fastened tightly,
no bow, just a big knot.
The plastered ceiling cracks
and down comes the whole lot.

I’m not alone in being plastered,
(my wife has drunk a few).
Dutch courage I suspect
for what I’d have her do.

So while I’m there, still tethered
by ankle and by wrist.
My darling seeks to stifle
her laughing with her fist.

She bites her knuckles hard,
turns her back on me,
and while lying there still captive,
I know I need to pee.

I’m alone now in the bedroom
as my wife goes down the stair,
returning with her mobile,
she clicks and then hits ‘share’.

I struggle to get out
rattling the bed,
the headboard breaks free
and smacks me on the head.

I manage to sit up
but still my hands are tied,
then the bed collapses
with my legs still spread out wide.

Twenty minutes later
with firemen around,
I’m finally released
with all my limbs unbound.

My need for a pee
is no longer a concern;
Let me simply say
that bed will never burn!

So soaked and caked in plaster,
Facebooked to all I know,
I think I’d book a taxi
and quietly I’d go.

My wife and I aren’t speaking,
‘cos each time I have tried,
she pointed and she’s giggled
and laughed until she cried.

So that’s why I write fiction,
and it’s the only thing you’ll get,
for my reality’s a story
you’re not ready for yet.

CJH

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