I’ve shat it out myself, a complete
lack of humility and grace.
There is no value in any of it now,
our long gone eyes of days.
But I remember a midnight view,
high upon a Glastonbury hill.
You told me we were best friends
(perhaps it was that little blue pill).
You pressed on me an injustice,
by those piss poor poets of your past.
I said, even though your alliteration’s wank,
your assonance is arguably worse.
We wound our arms around the dawn
as you recounted another rickety tale.
You misquoted from, ‘A Kind of Loving’.
I knew all the words to, ‘Love for Sale’.
I got you noticed and myself unwell,
perhaps I was just piss poor too.
Suicide weeks in a Barnsley rehab,
whilst you marked out all your moves.
Our last festival in the dirty needle rain.
You took my bigger tent in which to sleep.
In the morning you couldn’t split a tin of beans.
Entitlement the company you keep.
Yesterday, when a book arrived.
It was the fiction of us that stunk.
Eyeliner masquerading as democracy.
The last rites of two little fucks.