All Poets are Afraid of Sex

SHE dressed sexy for her first meeting with The Poet.
It was alright, she felt, having been told once by a young man buying Murakami in the Brunswick Street Bookstore that “All poets are afraid of sex”.

Standing in wait for the number 19 tram SHE received a text message from a Philosopher, who was riding past on the tram going in the opposite direction. He said SHE looked like a circus performer. Perfect. SHE thought.

Upon her arrival in Brunswick, which was really Coburg, but SHE decided not to mention this to The Poet as it might hurt his feelings. SHE was greeted by an oversized stuffed bear beached in the driveway of his home. In a fit of violence someone has taken a knife to its belly and its stuffing bled down to the footpath.
What a contradiction to witness the crime scene of an inanimate object. SHE felt it to be a very disconcerting beginning to the relationship with The Poet.

Nevertheless SHE rang the doorbell and The Poet answered the door with toast crumbs covering much of his face. SHE felt he may be quite partial to cream cheese in the morning as apposed to the afternoon, when most people would eat cream cheese. Or was SHE was getting confused with soar cream? Either way it certainly wasn’t shaving cream that glued the crumbs to his face.

The Poet’s house was not what SHE expected. SHE thought he would own a lot wood, that his house would smell of beeswax and he would socialise only with cups of peppermint tea and gum trees. But alas SHE found he much preferred to move in the circles of Milo, racing car bed spreads and carpet stains.

Well, if dreams where reality SHE would spend a lifetime swallowing her yawns.

So SHE stood in the kitchen with the couple. The Poet and the toast crumbs. What riveting conversations awaited her? SHE knew SHE would spend a lot of time scratching her face and talking about people with celiac disease. The distraction would be like quick sand, slowly sucking her ability to converse down the into the lino floor.
SHE felt the need to distract herself from the mess on his face or for him to at lease introduce her to the crumbs. Maybe she should have bought a hula-hoop with her and proceeded to spend the morning performing useless tricks in the hope it would make The Poet laugh heartily enough to shake the crumbs to the kitchen floor.
Instead SHE said, you have something on your face. The Poet replied. Oh…err. Thanks for saying so! It says a lot about the type of person you are.
SCORE, she whispered.

The Poets kitchen was large, one might even say abnormally so. SHE, again, was disappointed by this. How was SHE to have awkward flirtatious conversation with The Poet when they may as well have been standing on opposite sides of a railway line?
The Poet held up a variety of tea bags.
Although SHE had exceptional vision and had on numerous occasions been told by her optometrist SHE could be a fighter pilot, SHE was simply too far away from The Poet to distinguish between the bags draping his fingers.
SHE would have to admit that she couldn’t make out the labels. How mortifying.
The Poet did not seem interested in the tea bags at all and threw them into the sink in exchange for a giant tin of Milo.

The Poet wanted to make his guest a glass of Milo?

Suddenly it all became clear to her. Was The Poet was attempting to make himself unattractive? Did he want to repel her? SHE stood brewing, how could a milk moustache possibly be endearing at this point in the relationship?

Tea would have been preferable. Tea spoons, sugar cubes are visually sensual aids that SHE was convinced would entrance The Poet. For goodness sakes just take a minute to think about a bubbling kettle of steaming water being ever so slowly poured into a shapely teapot. Tea parties the little known aphrodisiac.

SHE kept referring to "The relationship”. SHE kept thinking about what he must think about her? SHE was being a self obsessed nobody. Sure SHE could walk out of the house thinking he was some sort of frigid socially awkward beast. But really SHE was the one wearing hot pants at 10am on a Wednesday morning.

But wasn’t he intrigued? Her interest, her gentle prodding emails to meet The Poet. The numerous evenings she spent at work, well after dark discussing her growing fascination with Kevin the Security guard. Did this not come across?

Are all poets really afraid of sex?

SHE needs to be educated on the stereotype of The Poet.

Please direct your imagination to Exhibit A: The Poet.

You will notice in his natural habitat he permits himself higher doses of stimulants generally in the form of coffee. The highly caffeinated artist feels comfortable amongst the presence of symptoms such as dilated pupils, bad breath and the irregular openings of the sweat glands when no physical exertion has been performed.
Completely reliant upon sensory experience The Poet will rarely be seen in footwear and is of the attitude cold weather is good for the disposition.

Thus it is fair that SHE assumed the want of body heat would be of great importance to The Poet.

The Poet, in his highly creative prime will generally develop colour blindness, thus as you may observe the bright purple pants are a mistake and The Poet actually believes he is melding beautifully with the autumn colours of his neighbourhood, sporting a handsome olive green.

SHE will leave The Poets house in Brunswick which is really Coburg with a heavy heart.
This is due to her failure to understand the page and the person are always vastly different.