Mum, Don’t Be Late

Sulking Like A Wronged Child I Sit In A Pool Of My Own Blood.
I Hadn’t Heard The Words That Were Being Spoken On
The Radio Before. An Afternoon Play To See Out These Hours, Interminable To The Last
These Metronome Voices And This
Guillotine Script Would Quicker Kill Those Weaker,
Then Me.
The Room I’m In Is Painted Orange; A Picture Of A Toad In A
Bright Red Waistcoat Hangs Apt Over The Bed.
The Bed Is Tartan Blanketed, The Type Under Which Pensioners
Legs Nestle.
My Whole Body Is Chocked With Ice Cubes And As The
Trickles Tickle And Ease The Smart Of My Last Untimely
Scourge – Neat Binary Openings – The Most Beautiful Of
Suicides –
I Clock That I Can’t Hear Out Of My Left Ear.
Earth, I Think It Is In There, Or Big Burst Vessels,
I Vaguely Picture As A Result Of Retching Up A Pint Of Vodka,
Rather Than The Slow Collapse Of Senses
I Always Took For Granted.
My Eyes Feel Like Gobstoppers That Are Being Sucked
So Hard The Mouth Around Them Must Be Raw With Love.
The Curtains In Here Are Blue With Dirty White Roses Interwoven;
They Look Like Matted Hair. This Carpet, This Carpet Needs
Scrubbing Of Its Colours, Yellow, Pink And Purple Swirls On A
Slab Of Marble Grey. I Remember When I Was Little,
I Broke A Bottle Of Milk Onto The Hallway Carpet At Home,
That Carpet Was Green, And As The Milk Soaked In,
I Thought It Must Have Always Been Sour, The Colour It Was,
Greenish Cream. Sitting Here In This Lodge,
I Know The Truth Of It,
And Here’s My Blood, Here, And That I’m Now More Than
Halfway To My Mum.

More Shayari by Peter Eden
27 Jun 2008 No Comment

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