lateness and waitingness i suppose
cockroach scrabble of late, pissed-up keys
at the door. you are home now
and will make the toothbrush
taste of
too much
impish, yellow lager. come morning
the vain and lisping kettle will wheeze as
it splurts the water for the tea, as it
begs and urges
and prays and pleads - that you
wake up in a good mood or
not at all.
beth bores me, beth leaks that what bothered
her most, was not the bash in the dark, the tits
in gob - or those runny
yelps wrung out from glum pillows - she
says it's something else, she thinks it's
to do with your facing the wrong way - or
how afterwards
the sheets are quite cold
and look like battered
catcaught pigeons. damp dewcalf - flinching,
streetwet newspaper - i should go out,
i know i should.
are you cross yet?
tomorrow will be good though, tomorrow i'll
lie to you twice - once about a
film i havn't really seen and later,
when i tell you we'll just
pop to the pub for a couple, where the glasses
mate with the glasses, mate
with the glasses until closing - and you might
grin or might never, and they all hope that you'll be
glad. there are truths too, there are truths noone
can be bothered with - how thirteen year old girls
all shoplift because they wish to
pad out the pockets to
give the illusion of hips, that is all,
that is calm,
that is simple and lovely.
i'm not bad, i just get confused
because the hot and cold taps are the
other way about at my parents' house but
bloody hell, what a face, what a wonderful
face - how you constantly look that
you're about to sneeze.
Poetry by Claire
Read 1008 times
Written on 2005-08-16 at 16:12
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Face
you are home; trumpeted by thecockroach scrabble of late, pissed-up keys
at the door. you are home now
and will make the toothbrush
taste of
too much
impish, yellow lager. come morning
the vain and lisping kettle will wheeze as
it splurts the water for the tea, as it
begs and urges
and prays and pleads - that you
wake up in a good mood or
not at all.
beth bores me, beth leaks that what bothered
her most, was not the bash in the dark, the tits
in gob - or those runny
yelps wrung out from glum pillows - she
says it's something else, she thinks it's
to do with your facing the wrong way - or
how afterwards
the sheets are quite cold
and look like battered
catcaught pigeons. damp dewcalf - flinching,
streetwet newspaper - i should go out,
i know i should.
are you cross yet?
tomorrow will be good though, tomorrow i'll
lie to you twice - once about a
film i havn't really seen and later,
when i tell you we'll just
pop to the pub for a couple, where the glasses
mate with the glasses, mate
with the glasses until closing - and you might
grin or might never, and they all hope that you'll be
glad. there are truths too, there are truths noone
can be bothered with - how thirteen year old girls
all shoplift because they wish to
pad out the pockets to
give the illusion of hips, that is all,
that is calm,
that is simple and lovely.
i'm not bad, i just get confused
because the hot and cold taps are the
other way about at my parents' house but
bloody hell, what a face, what a wonderful
face - how you constantly look that
you're about to sneeze.
Poetry by Claire
Read 1008 times
Written on 2005-08-16 at 16:12
Tags Love
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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