Ode to a One Night Stand

you can’t blame your one night stand
for being a one night stand
but sometimes, when you’re really hungover, you can

’cause your one night stand is your anti-lover
your anti-romanticism
they ain’t gonna sit under a willow by the river
draw you pictures and
play you lutes, and make you dream no other

hey one-night stand, I don’t mean to be a cunt
but can you, like, grab your coat, up and run
I’ve got things to do and the small talk’s grating
I’ve made you your coffee,
now the day’s on its way and the metro’s waiting

you were mad beautiful last night, one-night stand
you had dazzles like amethysts in your eyes
you were Paris with the goddesses,
you were the secret chord in Hallelujah
that David played and it pleased the Lord
and your touch it sparkled in my mind
as your lips pulsed and sparked and met mine

but in the morning’s light hour, those lips are puffy
you’ve got eyes like bloodshot flowers
and you’re showing me Youtube videos of Lindsay Lohan
flashing her gash and falling out of cabs
so, to paraphrase Douglas Adams,
so long and thanks for all the crabs

one-night stand, I wanna use the bathroom
I wanna shower you off me
brush your taste from my mouth

and I know I’m being selfish shameless fake
too angry at you for being my own mistake
and in fact one-night stand maybe the sex was great
but sometimes it’s anti-climactic
clumsy and drunk and full of fleeting madness
and I think of old lovers in the final throes
to get me off pretending you’re my own

you want my number, one-night stand?
I’ll give you my number
ten pints of Stella and a shot of sambuca
that’s my number, one-night stand
a number I never intend to repeat twice
until maybe next Friday night

because one-night stand, you’re not real
you’re a silhouette, a sliver of silver
phantom in a taxi, on a nightbus in Hackney
all your lips and your limbs are lonely
true, once I wanted to be that Casanova
all sex and drugs and sex moreover
the incubus with the devil’s strut
but sometimes I guess you grow up

and one-night stand, I –

oh.

actually, one-night stand, you
I quite like your tattoo
I trace my fingertip over its ink rune
and, you know what, your head feels quite nice
leaning on my breast,
listening to the beat of my chest
and we’re pillow talking about nothing at all
but I might be able to go on talking about nothing
for a while with you before I fall
cause for some reason you’re making me smile
and I ain’t smiled about nothing for a while

you know, one night-stand before you go
do you want breakfast, maybe some toast?
and actually one-night stand, look –
can I perhaps add you on Facebook?
yes? yes!
I mean, uh-huh, cool, whatever
and one-night stand before you’re out the door
maybe I could stand you for one night more

though just one last thing, one-night stand:
what’s your name again?

Bio:
Pat was born in Bristol, lived in London for the majority of his studies and is now on the verge of leaving Paris for Berlin, after having lived also in Philadelphia, New York and Santorini in Greece. He has performed at the Oxford Literature Festival, the Albion Beatnik Bookstore, Landed Festival in the Welsh mountains, Shakespeare & Co and, of course, Spoken Word Paris, where he primarily developed his voice and style of poetry. He is currently coming to the end of a three month ‘writer-in-residency’, or Tumbleweeding, at Shakespeare & Company, and is working on a novel alongside his poetry.

Cheers all,
David