Thursday, 17 December 2009

something written slightly drunk at 2a.m. last nite

And the tree say,
      buh-bye,
And the wind rushing
      thru them, repeats it.
And the stray cats
      they howl,
      buh-bye, buh-bye, buh-bye,
As they fuck and break my sleep.

You in my ear,
      "Goodbye," your voice
      slick with previous tears,
      slick like oil.

Your hand upon my shoulder,
      brief as fireworks,
      did not linger.
Your fingers trace
      no patterns down my neck.

Your eyes whisper it,
      and the traffic outside
      bellows it:

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

For this is the end,
      the final crack in the mirror.
I look forward to
      seven years of bad luck.
This is our final resting place,
      is it?
This, a sad cafe
      of chattering families
      of red and white linoleum
      in a building I do not
      understand?

Why did you bring me here?

If you were to have said
      your piece, your bullet,
      before, or an hour later,

I would not
have ordered a starter.

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