(Still The One)

The day we learnt about perturbation
I couldn't help thinking of masturbation
and that fading poster
I had of ole Jaime Lannister
in our messy dorm
(house of institutionalized porn)
"The guy's just a poser,"
Cat was of the opinion,
I said no composer
could capture his agony,
his curls of gold and skin of ebony,
the pain of his hand chopped
off, stinking like onion,
worn round his neck on a string,
the thumping as it hopped
from left to right,
no longer able to fight;
how during all those nights,
dreaming of his sister's thighs
he knew that somewhere it was spring –
and quite the same way
I was thinking of him all day,
touching myself and the picture
of him all through the lecture,
and that's a thing to contemplate
for I couldn't concentrate
on the bloody Maths test
and fell for his body of text,
and that's how my name
first learnt to bear shame.