Sunday, 7 April 2013

what crisis?

nowadays they have to pinch the ends
of their cigarettes before they cross the threshold
no longer allowed to herd the crumbling swarms
of ash across the gingham veldt

outside the window, on the pavement,  lies a bible
and the radio declares their readiness is high
seems like a good night to let the smokers
in and warm around a last embered light

on the table I browse the “priest“ they called him
in the centrefold, deep in the heart, a flyer,
man’s journey into christ,
I guess we’ll find out soon enough the veracity of the divine

but until the young-un and the white horse riders
have decided who can piss the highest
leave us to the daily diary and its tales of
days of fucking each other’s husbands and wives

I bought a Dylan Thomas book one the way home,
from the junk shop,
when I got it back I saw blood on the back cover
I licked my finger to wipe it off but she said “no! you fool“
sure it carried the plague of some cursed lover
I plagiarise myself

a drink is most definitely in order
the tawny coolness tock tick toxic keen as the
sharpest dissection
and then you can find me not just like everybody else but just like
everybody else lying hemi-hydrate below the bridled tension
of life’s meniscus

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