A stripping puppet (re-write)

[justcloudy]

Keith, I didn't have much to say about the original since it just left me so confused, but I have been following this thread.

This edit seems like a completely different poem, I guess because it makes sense this time! ;p The first really did have some lovely bits, but it wasn't tied together. (Just thinking... You could even do a totally seperate edit using some of the parts you cut and change the theme to the dementia patient that some of us saw. Food for thought.)

The story that was in your head is told now, and I love it. Here are a few thoughts:

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. Love all of this

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, When did we go from "you" to "she"?
a dog inside the porch behind her door. Is "she" the dog? If so that's a bit convoluted...

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. Maybe I'm just being thick but who is the poet and who's leaving the stage and why do we care? Sets the scene I guess but I guess I'm not really sure why these two lines are here. Also L4 keeps tripping me up rhythmically.

I sit cold as milk clinks in the street, I haven't quite figured out what you're saying here but it doesn't really matter because I love it anyway.
and guilt has ploughed a furrow for your feet,
bereavement bleeds as keys drop on the side,
another night of chewed and swallowed pride. I really like the ending.



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.

Anyway thanks for that edit, really enjoyable.

-justcloudy