Each stanza a new day. A quick note of a very strange week - blink and you'll miss it. |
A BIZARRE WEEK Goodbye to the lover who says Love in his sleep. My mind can’t cope with work Today. So Sleep, sleep. A day of education I’d give my guts to give Away to some poor soul. I’m not smiling at you today. Packed inside a tin can, London’s packed police Are storming on the corners Of Trafalgar and dare Gaze at the moon eyes of Elizabeth, Holbein’s catch. I slipped away. The doctor says I’m fine – Fine sugar, fine iron; He’s got fatter. White blood cells will find You ill and down. What you’re feeling now, It isn’t real. Get over your chemicals, Little body. Glandular fever doesn’t Make you want to Kill yourself, sir. I’m ill now. Success, the blood is sapped and taken. The man’s a fool, It’s in your head: It’s real. Welcome, voice, I’ll listen to you. A breeze, a breeze. Beccles calls: another dusted line Where I should stand, Dressed up to the eyes, So obsolete it makes me sick. No sell today, sunshine. I’m tired, I’m useless, I’m a terrible friend. “Wednesday would have killed me, But Mother held me back.” Tears perched on the lids of those beautiful eyes, And I wished for a knife in my gut. I’m so ugly. And yet here you are again, Lover with the beautiful eyes That remain dry and wise As always. And Here again Is farewell. |