Bill Thomas

The Existentialists Go On Holiday

 

- Look, darling, there's the sea!

- Not while I'm driving, darling.

 

The Mars Bar

(A friend's uncle once asked why there weren't any poems about Mars Bars. This is why.)

 

Nails glinting in the glow of candlelight,

she grips the bar and gently pulls apart

the waxy coal-black petals that surround

the glossy round intoxicating end.

Her fingers' friction pulls the wrapper down:

the rigid rough-cast bar appears erect;

the chocolate delight now in her hand

moves closer to the parted scarlet lips,

left shining by her moistened tongue-tip's trail.

Her mouth encompasses the firm dark girth

and feels it turn to liquid on her tongue;

withdrawing it, a sticky trickle tries

to crawl towards her chin, but tries in vain,

tamed by her tongue, which coaxes it inside.

She swallows, smiles, and sighs - she's satisfied:

as theobromine pulses through her veins

the joy's not over - half the bar remains...