It seems there are those only famous for the sake of being famous; and it seems fame can be exhausting. Everyone wants their 15 minutes, but as I write here, not everyone knows how to spend it. Also, sex sells. Sex definitely sells.


We’ll take it,

Our 15 minutes of fame,

Since everyone gets their share

As advocated by the Prince of Pop Art,

The King of Bohemians,

Warhol with the funny hair

Who opened his doors

To the world and their knacks

Playwrights, patrons, the lip syncing

Drag acts and Hollywood heroes

Canned at The Factory,

Clearly labelled by the tin,

A media-packed feast

For breakfast, lunch and tea

Plunged into again

On the scene

By gluttony ensnared

Whilst in the spotlight

We’ll advocate

Our own brand,

The House Special garnished

For a singular meal

Though what that is

Hasn’t yet been renowned,

But we’ll think before

The quarter is up,

And improvise after we’ve

Perhaps had a drink

With 3 more waiting in the hand

Under the bright burning flood

It soon becomes clear:

Neither of us can sing,

We can’t co-ordinate our

Unwilling limbs to dance,

Nor can we perform tricks

In too-large polka-dotted pants;

Though comedic to freeze

On the spot in a blue wig,

It can only be done twice

Before boredom sets in,

And it isn’t an impression

We want to enhance

The only broad way

To get anywhere fast

Is to tell the story of us straight

From the mouth;

No paper to fix,

No pen to bind,

From the top of the head

The tale will have to unwind

Cautionary to the act of writing

Each line as it is,

Pausing and pausing

To draw emphasis –

No that isn’t where we stand

We’ll whizz through

The ‘where’s’ and the ‘when’s’

And pure happenstance,

Condense our first meeting

To a hello and a sultry glance,

Then hop right into bed at the blink

Of an eye,

 Fixate on the kissing,

The fucking, the sighing,

Never mind the flowers,

The phone calls,

The nerves of waiting:

Fast-forwarded on the reel

Between 2 months of dating

It’s exhausting,

Is fornicating for flash

Fiction’s sake`

We’re begging for the timer

To set a more sedentary pace,

As with everything,

Sex should be had in moderation,

Not in a mission abased

To boast the skills,

The tabloid sensation

Or appease a seasoned palette

For a gourmet plate

Soon gone sour

When 15 minutes has run late

The relief when it’s over

Is deeper than a

Post-coital smoke;

We haven’t the

Legs for the fame ship,

Our lips have grown coarse;

I’ll be quite content to compose

A book to peruse

Full of kitten photos

And all so sensible shoes

As you paint our own stage set

Behind the front door;

We’ll be stars then,

A small cast of 2

Locked in unvoyeured embrace

Undisturbed by applause



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

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