Sunday 15 July 2012

DAYS




its no matter what we’d all do
with
our
long hard or short and lost
Dorsett or Devon or Dudley days

whether 
we’d 
make a masterpiece or a disaster piece
or plead manically or manfully in monolith churches between glass cafes
or wallow in partition walls with huge numbers and clicking flicking function keys
or play at pretending skimpy or naked with products and ponies in pastures or malls
or weep professionally in black in council gardens for family or friends or folks on the falling hill

we'd all
scrub our sore scratched bum-bums clear of clingy tell tale trails
and
feed out yowling stomachs and thunder headaches and secret habits innocent harmless or weird
and
clean away
the
eternal grease dust and clump hair and flake skin
off
all
our
precious possessions and shifted furniture and staked up kipple dams
smiling bravely daily
into the ancient sculpted blank wall faces
of disappointment
and
we'd fake and hold in panic and fear and gratitude onto whatever and whichever
small-gasms
that
make
it all just ok

until
its time to hide and die all night in the dark with the outrageous reality of dreams
and flooding running sweats
and the rustle-thud popping noises we'd never ever identify EVER
to
burst confused and coughing and thirsty into more similar mornings
and
try
it all
again




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