working
out in the garden
under autumn suns
and whole nights
doing fine wine
bunkered in my high marsh plot
before
I squeeze time in
to squeeze words out
in some grey dawn –
all this effort
will call me a
CUNT
on Sunday when I am all wrong
but this Sunday
I got valium in the cabinet
and I,
CUNT,
will take the low prince from the cabinet,
take it with cold water,
and shop with pockets of change
for cider and eggs.
in the park I stare at the park.
I am holding a soft drink.
I am a bundle of white cotton I must wash.
my hopes
for tele are high and innocent.
(inevitable
eventual
disappointment)
I am only washing alone in a park, a cunt,
with nothing to relax to.
I smell the air
fresh off the A13
and just stand still
not thinking much
not thinking much.
maybe if it doesn't rain
I'll go back and get my camera.
No comments:
Post a Comment