Kiss Catch - The Ghoul Finds Love

We are all friends here. I have often skipped over the hurdle on the subject of Love (the capitol L type) but now I feel the time has arrived to spin out my ideas on it. Well maybe.
I have written little odes to a number of ladies but never TO a lady. It is an obvious difference of course. I can see my future relationship being an up and down affair with a crazy bag lady from some obscure village. With an added pinch of serpents luck she will have a withered hand and a nose to poke the fading embers of love with.
I see it now, 'you may kiss the bride!' As I lean forward she takes out an eyeball with her parrot beak.
My first Love was a bottle of sauce that I kept hidden in an inside pocket whenever out. She wasn't too demanding in the beginning and evenings were spent simply kissing her smooth neck and swigging from her glossy mouth. I had a glorious nine year romance with her, but by the end she had shattered my confidence, taken every penny piece and had even started to criticise the way I dressed.
It wasn't honesty with her. In the first stage of our relationship I managed to squeeze in a mistress. She was like a nodding dog in many ways and there is nothing more irritating than a woman who hangs on to your every word as if its gospel. I liked her that much is true but looking back the only way I could have loved her was by loving a different part of her every day. A tedious thing and far too timid for my volatile nature.
All of the others I dated were unique. Cider was a stubborn wench but she had energy, a real livewire. I was never alone in the morning if she was by my side, she could tickle a hangover away with ease and bring me out into the world. Vodka could be a little more tetchy: she shined a light on my darker moods which could cause havoc but if I respected her she could be absolutely charming. I treated both lager and wine equally as they did me, the result was I was never alone but never could tell if they had been cheating on me.
The worst of the bunch was whiskey; she was a vile, vindictive bitch and I couldn't do any amount of right in her eyes. She used me to get back at my gentle nature by clouding my views and feelings and unveiling my hatred.
Port and champagne always had silver spoons up their arses, I fled from their clutches every time.
They were all good time gals but in the end they took it out of me. I look at them standing in supermarkets now eyeing up other men. I am only slightly jealous and the dust looks good on them.
I don't know who or what to love next. It seems such a bitter word after basking on a topsy turvy ocean. I saw my ideal woman bathing in its innocence once. She was so beautiful that part of my spirit left me to be with her. A quiet lady with loud rubies on her tongue, I think she had fractured her thoughts but I was able to pick up on the break and loved her for it. I could have stood watching her all day, the spiders in her smokey hair didn't bother me. A feline jackdaw and all the time my inconsistant jawbreakers were mouthed in silence.
It might have been a dream but I like to think that such a woman exists. The blonde ornament with hoof heels and rubber eyelashes excites me as much as an overweight zero with her burst-water-pipe looks. That type of woman is kept like a pocket watch and only gets taken out by being mistaken for the picture locket of ones wife.
She ought to be left alone as I shall leave her here.
I have searched for my ideal lady many times in the past but since I only flirted with my vanity I always ended up with my reflection. I quit looking after a thousand headaches and a million strange faces and I was alone for a hellish period of time. It took me back to school days where I was considered to be the freak that nobody wanted to touch. A childhood sweetheart was never meant to be. As the other boys in class were beating their puny chests in exagerrated triumph I was left counting my fingers but I was never envious. The girls in class did not have the courage or glitz to fuel any fantasies, they were too busy spitting damp paper at the heads of the fat and freckled.
I read about sex on a discarded lollipop stick I found next to a dead squirrel in fields ajoining the school. No doubt it got to the truth before I did.
In those days I imagined love making as a pissed up grope in the park with a schoolgirl in white knickers and half a bottle of cooking sherry stolen from the kitchen. Maybe I still do, I've never shared my body with anyone long enough to find out.
The same can be said of Love. I would like to say that I learnt about Love through reading Keats, Byron and other magical scribblers but I didn't and the lovely creature eludes me to this day.
And what will happen if I do discover Love? Will I settle down in the quiet seclusion of a wedding band in a nine to five house with a brace of children? I sincerely hope that the combined natures of myself and future queen will avoid that claustrophobic life style.
I do not wish to be married amidst a racket of trumpets and a hurricane of confetti with cameras snapping merrily away like caffiene hungry crocodiles at the anorexic bridesmaids and grown men with hangovers. Wedding photos have a wonderful sense of humour.
Give me a church wedding by all means, scatter the daffodils along the aisle and illuminate the apostles with candlelight but lock ceremony away, close it in a book. A marriage is gutsy enough without over-dressing it in frilly bells and icing that twinkle like loose change in a dingy betting shop.
I will find Love one day either standing in a queue or weeping at the funeral of a God, and when I do I will lay down and sleep with my frail figurine until we both discover truth and serenity. Divine knowledge shallbe given to us wrapped in old newspapers and hatred will fold its arms and wait for death.
I cannot see my own footprints at the moment but I can hear tomorrow in the distance. It is coming on a dragon's back with the smell of eucalyptus on its breath and a flower behind its ear.
Let us dance and raise a toast to Love.