Snooker Slam Poem

Poem

‘Twas a night of balmy breezes,
Sensual and moist, the air itself
Awash with thrusting expectation and a breath
Which rattled the palm trees.
The sea, the surf,
The semi-naked delirium of sly bodies.
The moment our eyes met I knew
That by midnight we’d be ensconced in
Slippery passion,
And later that night 
as my hot hands hovered over your
Manly and feral chest 
You closed your eyes in erotic ecstasy and said,
‘I see Ronnie O’ Sullivan is
Through to the next round of the snooker’.

A momentary blip, I thought,
And as you drew me closer with your
Muscular arms
And I succumbed to the obviousness that lurked
Deep within the moment,
I felt a growl of pleasure rise up within you
And the following words spilled forth
From your sensuous lips:
‘And Mark Selby is up three frames to one
In the quarter final’.

I’d seen you in the cocktail bar,
All trendier promise and the kind of body
That if it were any more buff
Would have been that of a buffalo,
And our eyes had met in the steamy heat,
And I’d felt the exotic wonder that time should deliver
A man who made my heart a-quiver
Knowing all along it was too good to be true,
When I said I wanted to spend the night with you,
To which you’d replied, but have you got a long cue?
(I’d thought you meant
The other kind of queue).

Now here we are in the throes of passion
And as I tried to lose myself
To the insanity of the moment,
That inexorable oblivion 
Of skin on skin and souls ablaze
And the sheer physicality of heavenly bliss,
You purred,
‘John Higgins came from a five frame deficit
To go in to the semi.
It’s just a question of getting that moment of luck.
But you have to earn luck, don’t you?
 Sure, your opponent can miss a shot,
But you’ve got to take advantage.
Don’t let the moment slip.
Foul shot and a miss.
Foul shot and a miss.
Foul shot and a miss.
And then before you know it you’ve reached
Some kind of parity with your opponent
Sometimes
Sometimes
Sometimes
The pink just wont go in
No matter how much you chalk your cue.
The pink just wont go in
The pink just wont go in
Tickets to the final are sixty quid a shot.
The pink just wont go in.
Oh my god,
Ronnie O’Sullivan!

We lay in each other’s arms for a bit
And then, quietly, you sing,
‘Snooker loopy nuts are we.
Me and him and them and me.
We’ll show you what we can do
With a load of balls and a snooker cue.

Pot the reds and
Screw back
For the yellow green brown blue pink and black.
Snooker loopy nuts are we
We’re all snooker

Loopy.’