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