A stripping puppet (re-write)

[Truerenigma]

Thinner than the dress that used to fit,
we make up so you can leave again, nice entendre (make up).
bus ride into town a burned out clown,
There's a syntax issue here; I can't parse the burned out clown, is it the bus ride (?!), the town, the us, the you, the them..etc
tumbles till the neon all shuts down.
I can't find a purpose for all, I suspect it may be metrical. What is a neon all? Suggestions: neon lights, signs etc. Maybe even just shut instead of shuts.

Restless hands beat rhythms on my chair,
pretending to myself that you still care. should this be a full stop? the start of the next line is not capped, and it is unclear if the dog is a metaphor.
(I'm) left to lap the worn out floor,
a dog behind your nightclub door.


slurred lines and pickups dance you as the fool,
pass around a parcel unravelled(*) as you drool,unraveled (*sp.) is incorrect tense, or the rest is. either way, " a parcel unraveled as you drool" doesn't make sense in English. Pickups as puppet masters is a new one!
stretched alter necks fumbled out of place,
girl inside the glass sips away without a trace. The missing article here is strange.

I sit silenced 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.

The list of abstractions made into metaphors is interesting. It may work better if they were more solid. Is bereavement a bleeding calf? etc.



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.

The idea is interesting. I wouldn't put it down if I were you.