04-18-2016, 11:33 PM
Sanctified syncopated Sundays
Sunlight laser cuts the blackout blinds
and the chimney breast nest
alarm clocks me without a snooze button,
breakfast worms are tap danced
across gray roof slates
and devoured in a crescendo
of wake up calls.
My damaged head reminds me
how much wine I took to bed,
still unsure on legs that thud
each step.
The bathroom slaps me cold tiled
in my feeling old, can't handle it face.
Piss proud I lean cheek first
to taste the spearmint
of the toothpaste splattered mirror.
There's a boy I used to glimpse,
with punk cut, black dyed hair
and morning stubble,
sitting thin in a mohair jumper and joggers,
his voice was cigarettes
through nicotine stained fingers
that pointed out the freedom of self belief
and dole queue days.
The boy disappeared into long hours
and the arrhythmia of insecurity.
The kettle rumbles and clicks,
spills hot as I yawn into decafe,
still dressed in bed sheets.
I slide back the conservatory door
and bathe in a burst of warmth
that races across the differential.
The faded favourite chair
has been harvesting heat,
enough to feed my aches for a while.
I ignore the hay fevered garden
but still it shouts "look at me"
as it gets busy going to work.
The dog finishes off my cereal bowl
then curls like a cat on my lap.
I thank God for her bad breath
and making Sunday
a day for sitting in my underpants and vest.
Sunlight laser cuts the blackout blinds
and the chimney breast nest
alarm clocks me without a snooze button,
breakfast worms are tap danced
across gray roof slates
and devoured in a crescendo
of wake up calls.
My damaged head reminds me
how much wine I took to bed,
still unsure on legs that thud
each step.
The bathroom slaps me cold tiled
in my feeling old, can't handle it face.
Piss proud I lean cheek first
to taste the spearmint
of the toothpaste splattered mirror.
There's a boy I used to glimpse,
with punk cut, black dyed hair
and morning stubble,
sitting thin in a mohair jumper and joggers,
his voice was cigarettes
through nicotine stained fingers
that pointed out the freedom of self belief
and dole queue days.
The boy disappeared into long hours
and the arrhythmia of insecurity.
The kettle rumbles and clicks,
spills hot as I yawn into decafe,
still dressed in bed sheets.
I slide back the conservatory door
and bathe in a burst of warmth
that races across the differential.
The faded favourite chair
has been harvesting heat,
enough to feed my aches for a while.
I ignore the hay fevered garden
but still it shouts "look at me"
as it gets busy going to work.
The dog finishes off my cereal bowl
then curls like a cat on my lap.
I thank God for her bad breath
and making Sunday
a day for sitting in my underpants and vest.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out