darling, have you seen my little town?
she's stroking me with her nut brown eyes
like she sees what I can't imagine,
scarcely have I been so engaging
she twists me to face
the inconsolable town of 50 now peopled
by darlings designed by Vivienne Westwood,
up inside skirts and kilts
grabbing for the ornate and opulent
points of light in the midnight sky
what I say is meaning
less
and less
with each cog that slips a tooth
the slap
was a real slap in the face,
a fetching face
you’d normally want to suck
is anything necessary –
short of
breath
and maybe a little cheesecake
her arched eyebrows told me
everything I needed to know
about her willingness
to be forever willing
my heart is pressing against my character
as though it’s saying:
“stop what you’re doing and
pump some life into the complacent”
random and totally unnecessary derangements
the unhinged and swinging mood, lurching from a smile for a song to the stone face at the dining table, no-one knows who's wearing those clothes, and that seething word consistent follows you around like a sermon read in Latin you can't comprehend, because it's hard to blame yourself you blame others and the anger boils and veins clinch and you walk into the traffic of people hoping a wandering set of lips will excuse and explain
