Thursday, 15 January 2009

The Back Doors

You smoked those cigarettes.
The ones you used to smoke.

I smoked them too, you'd give me one.
Your last ones.
In the middle of the night, in the morning,
at the back doors.

The food, burnt.
The slovenly cooker: old she was,
she forgot how to cook, how to time,
how to mime.

The mime, the show. The fucking pantomime.

I miss you boy.
I don't miss you. I miss the times.

In fact,
I don't miss the times at all.

There were no times,
the times were endless
because there was no start.

It ended before it began.

You don't deserve my words

No comments:

Post a Comment