Monday, 23 April 2012

20: Monday

feeling like wet glass
beneath my skin
dirty panes
cotton wool spiked with
pink rubbing alcohol and
the smell of spilt milk

no balconies to perch
my rocking chair upon
no psychedelic peacock
tails fanning me like
Egyptian slaves, just

dense Monday cabbage
and limp tulips, just

grey blubber in the
pavement cracks to
catch the glitter from the
weekend winds and wink

it’s ok, this isn’t the end
of your heart’s honeymoon
we’ll be back soon
we’ll riot
we’ll dunk your head
and scream faster

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