Thursday, 20 September 2012

Washing Up

I’m at the business end of you
It might be blue
But I quite like the view
It’s true
And since September, as far as I remember
It ain’t been fun for my gun and this ember
That burns still
A pill I can’t extinguish as it adds to my anguish
Like foes where I can’t turn up their toes
And vanquish
I’ll buy some Vanish
Wash you out of my downstairs hair
And dance like Lionel Blair on your grave
But save
The memories of your tits
Just the good bits
In fits
And starts
Like a painter who paints a picture
In the dark arts
I’ll play darts on your face
Hit the bullshit
But shield my cards, chase the ace
With no trace
Of the tear lines
Or parking fines
On double yellows, with violins and cellos that sound great
Even in the gutter, like the butter that’s gone out of date
It’s not runny
But it tastes funny
Like when you lick money
Or broken bricks from a wall
If only I’d been tall
And you hadn’t foxed me
And boxed me in a corner
Because I now box clever with my new pecs
And flex till I stink
Or drink so I don’t think
When I’m stood at the sink
In pink
Marigolds to stop burns
Returns with held receipts
Deceits, shelled out on bed sheets
At the dead
Of the red wine
Where there’s a sign that I don’t want to face
It’s like the plates, my best mates
Probably scheming

But luckily I’m still not dreaming

About you.