A stripping puppet (re-write)

[Keith]

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.

[Todd]

Hi Keith,

I've read this one quite a bit, and while I may be misinterpreting the content, I do like it. Here are some comments for you:

I'm picturing the you in this poem as someone in hospise or home care dealing with something like cancer or dementia. That may be off, but I wanted you to know my take as it may give weight, or remove weight from the following comments.

On Friday nights the sherbet
centres make you fizz.--I'm trying to think what may have a Sherbert center. Fizz also makes me think of a seltzer bottle in a physical comedy routine. You see to have slapstick imagery in here so that's what moved me down this path.
Saturday wakes wafer thin,--I like the phrasing here[/b]
silver foil inside your filling.--I'm not thinking of this as a tooth filling, more of at the center of a person.
Sunday hides your traffic light eyes--I like the image. I'm not sure how to take it though. Is it a person who wants things to STOP in some ways, and GO in other ways? And they're stuck in a limbo of sorts
and I will bathe you in a dripping tap,--This seems to suggest illness or incapacitation due to advanced age or drugs.
cleansing now has deeper purpose,--Hmm cleansing has different implications other than cleaning. It's might imply a purging of impurities.
a faded duck floats on the surface.--dementia, Alzheimer's, a remembrance of childhood, maybe

Thinner than the dress that used to fit--This makes me think of a wasting sickness
you make up to leave again
falling into town a burned out clown--A very sad picture and a nice play on the make up (or makeup) line
hanging round some young man’s
left begging by the kebab van.--These two lines feel awkward in their phrasing.
Like that the city turns its back,
a fumbled custard pie has splat
the pavement echoes as it laughs.--These last three lines especially the final two give a sad slapstick image. I like them

Groped smears and muddy nylons--Groped makes me think of prostitution, or an older lady who is living through a decadent downward spiral.
bumper car through our door.--bumper car lends a carnival feel.
Your headlights shine behind me,
bereaved by the moment once more.--Again, a sad sense to these two lines
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.--I like the phrasing but I don't understand these lines, or the conclusion.

I'm not sure that ramble was helpful Keith. You can probably see that I like the piece but am a bit confused by the content. It will probably be more clear to others.

Best,

Todd

[Keith]

Hi Keith,

I've read this one quite a bit, and while I may be misinterpreting the content, I do like it. Here are some comments for you:

I'm picturing the you in this poem as someone in hospise or home care dealing with something like cancer or dementia. That may be off, but I wanted you to know my take as it may give weight, or remove weight from the following comments.

On Friday nights the sherbet
centres make you fizz.--I'm trying to think what may have a Sherbert center. Fizz also makes me think of a seltzer bottle in a physical comedy routine. You see to have slapstick imagery in here so that's what moved me down this path.
Saturday wakes wafer thin,--I like the phrasing here[/b]
silver foil inside your filling.--I'm not thinking of this as a tooth filling, more of at the center of a person.
Sunday hides your traffic light eyes--I like the image. I'm not sure how to take it though. Is it a person who wants things to STOP in some ways, and GO in other ways? And they're stuck in a limbo of sorts
and I will bathe you in a dripping tap,--This seems to suggest illness or incapacitation due to advanced age or drugs.
cleansing now has deeper purpose,--Hmm cleansing has different implications other than cleaning. It's might imply a purging of impurities.
a faded duck floats on the surface.--dementia, Alzheimer's, a remembrance of childhood, maybe

Thinner than the dress that used to fit--This makes me think of a wasting sickness
you make up to leave again
falling into town a burned out clown--A very sad picture and a nice play on the make up (or makeup) line
hanging round some young man’s
left begging by the kebab van.--These two lines feel awkward in their phrasing.
Like that the city turns its back,
a fumbled custard pie has splat
the pavement echoes as it laughs.--These last three lines especially the final two give a sad slapstick image. I like them

Groped smears and muddy nylons--Groped makes me think of prostitution, or an older lady who is living through a decadent downward spiral.
bumper car through our door.--bumper car lends a carnival feel.
Your headlights shine behind me,
bereaved by the moment once more.--Again, a sad sense to these two lines
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.--I like the phrasing but I don't understand these lines, or the conclusion.

I'm not sure that ramble was helpful Keith. You can probably see that I like the piece but am a bit confused by the content. It will probably be more clear to others.

Best,

Todd

Many tanks Todd your comments are very helpful and most of my points have come across so that's a good start. This may need another stanza as I want the reader to know how alone and lonely the husbands feels waiting at home for his playing around wife, who is not in a good place and takes any high she can get, to come home. Strong edit needed me thinks thanks for the help. Keith

[tectak]

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.

Hi keith,
I am not tempted to do a line by line on this...not because there are no problems but because what problems I see would be eradicated by more clarity of intent.
In fact, and I find this less often than I used to, it is an intent LINE BY LINE that I need.
Perhaps this reader is tired...or lazy...but I get decreasing pleasure from untangling words in order to get to the message...and I find this more irritating when I sense that there IS a message.(not always the case).
You string together some fine imagery but the glue that binds it all together is sticking to everything and causing an unholy tangle. Sorry, but your love for words is not enough here. Help me.

Like that the city turns its back, a fumbled custard pie has splat the pavement echoes as it laughs.....I mean, really?

Best,
tectak

[ChristopherSea]

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.

Hey Keith! This piece is chock full of visual and verbal gymnastics. She sounds like one hell of a weekend warrior and party gal with a homebody as a boyfriend. I’m missing something in that title (She’s more like a ‘Crash Test Dummy’ to me, as she flies about). This poem reads faster than it absorbs, but I like it. I think your writing style of brevity and word conservation allows you to pack a great deal into a poem. The images herein are great. There may be some better punctuation and word choices. I’d trade the period for a semicolon on line 2. I’d make a full stop after tap and put a semicolon after purpose. The double use of ‘you’ after ‘fit’ and before ‘make up’ seems clever, but reads funny. A comma after ‘fit,’ fixes it for me. In fact, that whole sentence is a run-on, but I like the triple rhyme (quad with the slant). I would re-punctuate it thusly:

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’ is rather awkward. Something like ‘As if the city’ may fare better. I would put a comma after ‘splat’. I like bumper car as a verb and the bump-her-car entendre! ‘your headlights beam behind me’ would be more potent. ‘Changing shades’ seems off, ‘changing shadows of backlit screens’ might be better. See what you think of these ideas. Great poem! Cheers/Chris

[Keith]

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.

Hi keith,
I am not tempted to do a line by line on this...not because there are no problems but because what problems I see would be eradicated by more clarity of intent.
In fact, and I find this less often than I used to, it is an intent LINE BY LINE that I need.
Perhaps this reader is tired...or lazy...but I get decreasing pleasure from untangling words in order to get to the message...and I find this more irritating when I sense that there IS a message.(not always the case).
You string together some fine imagery but the glue that binds it all together is sticking to everything and causing an unholy tangle. Sorry, but your love for words is not enough here. Help me.

Like that the city turns its back, a fumbled custard pie has splat the pavement echoes as it laughs.....I mean, really?

Best,
tectak

I see it now as you describe it covered in glue thank you for letting me know, I will see if I can get the glue off. Best Keith

---

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.

Hey Keith! This piece is chock full of visual and verbal gymnastics. She sounds like one hell of a weekend warrior and party gal with a homebody as a boyfriend. I’m missing something in that title (She’s more like a ‘Crash Test Dummy’ to me, as she flies about). This poem reads faster than it absorbs, but I like it. I think your writing style of brevity and word conservation allows you to pack a great deal into a poem. The images herein are great. There may be some better punctuation and word choices. I’d trade the period for a semicolon on line 2. I’d make a full stop after tap and put a semicolon after purpose. The double use of ‘you’ after ‘fit’ and before ‘make up’ seems clever, but reads funny. A comma after ‘fit,’ fixes it for me. In fact, that whole sentence is a run-on, but I like the triple rhyme (quad with the slant). I would re-punctuate it thusly:

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’ is rather awkward. Something like ‘As if the city’ may fare better. I would put a comma after ‘splat’. I like bumper car as a verb and the bump-her-car entendre! ‘your headlights beam behind me’ would be more potent. ‘Changing shades’ seems off, ‘changing shadows of backlit screens’ might be better. See what you think of these ideas. Great poem! Cheers/Chris

Thank you for your considered comments and the punctuation tips Chris, I will take them all into the edit. Best Keith

[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

[Todd]

Hi Keith,

A very drastic rewrite, but on the first few reads it seems to move you where you need to be. Some comments for you on the edit:

Edit 1 re-write
Thinner than the dress that used to fit,--This first line throws me a bit. The presumption for most people is that the dress would remain thinner, as they got fatter. It's details like that that sidetracked me into sickness in the last round. That said, it doesn't mean it needs to be cut just that I'm not connecting with it probably in the way you intend.
we make up so you can leave again,--Great observation, and characterization for the couple
bus ride into town a burned out clown,--This phrasing feels a bit choppy to me. Maybe, "bus ride to town for a burned out clown"
tumbles till the neon all shuts down.--Great extension of the clown image, implies drunkenness, and has good phrasing

I sit at home beat rhythms on my chair,--love the line for what it conveys about his mood
pretending to myself that I don’t care.
She’s all I have that’s worth the worn out floor,--this instead of the, maybe
a dog inside the porch behind her door. --Comparing himself to a dog is strong

Barstool boys that play you for the fool,--don't like "that"
drinking from a cup that makes you drool.--if you cut that above maybe change drinking to drink
The poet finds her muse to fill the page,
ink is splattered as he leaves the stage.--These last two lines feel a bit off to me for the setting

I sit cold as milk clinks in the street,--I don't like cold here, but I love the sound conveyed and the rest of the line
and guilt has ploughed a furrow for your feet,--love this phrasing
bereavement bleeds as keys drop on the side,
another night of chewed and swallowed pride.

This seems like a good forward step, Keith. I hope the comments help some.

Best,

Todd

[Todd]

Wowow great!!!!!!!

Welcome to the site! While I'm sure Keith doesn't mind a positive response to his poem, in this forum we require much more feedback than what you've given here. Give some reasons why you had a positive response. What specifically worked for you. Please try again. /admin

[beaufort]

Edit 1 re-write
Thinner than the dress that used to fit, (does this mean the making up is a sham?)
we make up so you can leave again, (like this line a lot)
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, (how much is the worth of a worn out floor? for her? for you?)
a dog inside the porch behind her door.

Barstool boys that play you for the fool, (Play her for the fool?)
drinking from a cup that makes you drool. (makes her 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.

I really like the imagery here - cannot understand what you are trying to say as to worth - or the dog inside the porch - but maybe I'm sloowww???[/b]

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.

[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.

[Keith]

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

Many thanks for your comments just cloudy I have used them into the next edit. Best Keith

---

Hi Keith,

A very drastic rewrite, but on the first few reads it seems to move you where you need to be. Some comments for you on the edit:

Edit 1 re-write
Thinner than the dress that used to fit,--This first line throws me a bit. The presumption for most people is that the dress would remain thinner, as they got fatter. It's details like that that sidetracked me into sickness in the last round. That said, it doesn't mean it needs to be cut just that I'm not connecting with it probably in the way you intend.
we make up so you can leave again,--Great observation, and characterization for the couple
bus ride into town a burned out clown,--This phrasing feels a bit choppy to me. Maybe, "bus ride to town for a burned out clown"
tumbles till the neon all shuts down.--Great extension of the clown image, implies drunkenness, and has good phrasing

I sit at home beat rhythms on my chair,--love the line for what it conveys about his mood
pretending to myself that I don’t care.
She’s all I have that’s worth the worn out floor,--this instead of the, maybe
a dog inside the porch behind her door. --Comparing himself to a dog is strong

Barstool boys that play you for the fool,--don't like "that"
drinking from a cup that makes you drool.--if you cut that above maybe change drinking to drink
The poet finds her muse to fill the page,
ink is splattered as he leaves the stage.--These last two lines feel a bit off to me for the setting

I sit cold as milk clinks in the street,--I don't like cold here, but I love the sound conveyed and the rest of the line
and guilt has ploughed a furrow for your feet,--love this phrasing
bereavement bleeds as keys drop on the side,
another night of chewed and swallowed pride.

This seems like a good forward step, Keith. I hope the comments help some.

Best,

Todd

Thanks Todd, yes quite drastic tectak was spot on, so it changed a lot, I have gone through your comments and others and agree with most of them so I have moved to a third edit, cheer keith

---

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.

Thank you True have took in your suggestions and moved to another edit. Many thanks Keith