11-11-2013, 08:31 AM
Final Edit
Thinner than our threads that used to fit,
we make up so you can leave again,
you taxi into town a burned out clown,
then tumble till the neon shuts you down.
Restless hands beat rhythms on my chair,
pretending to myself that you still care.
I can only walk the worn out floor,
a dog that waits behind a nightclub door.
Taking turns to spin you on your stool,
playthings pass the parcel as you drool,
stretching alter neck goes out of shape,
grace is sipped away without a trace.
Morning milk clinks early in the street,
guilt has ploughed a furrow for your feet,
clatter bangs the door with no surprise,
another night of chewed and swallowed pride.
Edit 1 re-write
Thinner than the dress that used to fit,
we make up so you can leave again,
bus ride into town a burned out clown,
tumbles till the neon all shuts down.
I sit at home beat rhythms on my chair,
pretending to myself that I don’t care.
She’s all I have that’s worth the worn out floor,
a dog inside the porch behind her door.
Barstool boys that play you for the fool,
drinking from a cup that makes you drool.
The poet finds her muse to fill the page,
ink is splattered as he leaves the stage.
I sit cold as milk clinks in the street,
and guilt has ploughed a furrow for your feet,
bereavement bleeds as keys drop on the side,
another night of chewed and swallowed pride.
Original
On Friday nights the sherbet
centres make you fizz.
Saturday wakes wafer thin,
silver foil inside your filling.
Sunday hides your traffic light eyes
and I will bathe you in a dripping tap,
cleansing now has deeper purpose,
a faded duck floats on the surface.
Thinner than the dress that used to fit
you make up to leave again
falling into town a burned out clown
hanging round some young man’s
left begging by the kebab van.
Like that the city turns its back,
a fumbled custard pie has splat
the pavement echoes as it laughs.
Groped smears and muddy nylons
bumper car through our door.
Your headlights shine behind me,
bereaved by the moment once more.
Changing shades of back lit screens,
shape shift you on soft cushions,
and there I blanket my shame.
I sit cold as Monday comes,
but I’ll still love you just the same.
Thinner than our threads that used to fit,
we make up so you can leave again,
you taxi into town a burned out clown,
then tumble till the neon shuts you down.
Restless hands beat rhythms on my chair,
pretending to myself that you still care.
I can only walk the worn out floor,
a dog that waits behind a nightclub door.
Taking turns to spin you on your stool,
playthings pass the parcel as you drool,
stretching alter neck goes out of shape,
grace is sipped away without a trace.
Morning milk clinks early in the street,
guilt has ploughed a furrow for your feet,
clatter bangs the door with no surprise,
another night of chewed and swallowed pride.
Edit 1 re-write
Thinner than the dress that used to fit,
we make up so you can leave again,
bus ride into town a burned out clown,
tumbles till the neon all shuts down.
I sit at home beat rhythms on my chair,
pretending to myself that I don’t care.
She’s all I have that’s worth the worn out floor,
a dog inside the porch behind her door.
Barstool boys that play you for the fool,
drinking from a cup that makes you drool.
The poet finds her muse to fill the page,
ink is splattered as he leaves the stage.
I sit cold as milk clinks in the street,
and guilt has ploughed a furrow for your feet,
bereavement bleeds as keys drop on the side,
another night of chewed and swallowed pride.
Original
On Friday nights the sherbet
centres make you fizz.
Saturday wakes wafer thin,
silver foil inside your filling.
Sunday hides your traffic light eyes
and I will bathe you in a dripping tap,
cleansing now has deeper purpose,
a faded duck floats on the surface.
Thinner than the dress that used to fit
you make up to leave again
falling into town a burned out clown
hanging round some young man’s
left begging by the kebab van.
Like that the city turns its back,
a fumbled custard pie has splat
the pavement echoes as it laughs.
Groped smears and muddy nylons
bumper car through our door.
Your headlights shine behind me,
bereaved by the moment once more.
Changing shades of back lit screens,
shape shift you on soft cushions,
and there I blanket my shame.
I sit cold as Monday comes,
but I’ll still love you just the same.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out