Just Another Day.

Just another day.

As dark as a Sunday afternoon,
As drunken as a Sunday evening,
Before the work is Impaled.

Anticipating another weak week nearer to climax,
As dark and dismal as decapitated dreams,
Silent and totally totally deaf to your screams,
Like the picture on the weird girl's mantle-piece who offered me a
slice of floor for rest or distant sex,
Knowing well she serrated into my dreams,
With your shouts and smiles and nods of knowing that you would always
find love in the end but not
WITH ME.

And as my silent screams stayed silent,
I trembled,
And She went undisturbed.
Probably a Headmistress by now,
Could have been my Headmistress then.
.

And you hoped and prayed and beg,
But find one real touch,
One real comfort cries in the Crimean-cold of a don't- stand staring
bleary-eyed throbbing bobbing-for-apples and only finding dust kind-of-
night,
As dark and empty as gutter-vomit carpet-caked and go to bed and waking
with one sock on for friendship kind of night,
You know the kind.
Where you only sigh with relief at the vacant space beside you,
Another close call, like them all.

As dark as an ill begotten life,
As nervous as twitching memories,
Repeating and regurgitating and sour in your desert-storming war-zone
of an exhausted mouth in an exhausted brain in a burning flaming tail
of a comet,
In an engulfing flagellating corona of a dying spot on a dying
sun,
And just when you've thought they've gone,
They've only just begun.

They regenerate and strangle and caress you in black nightmares and
even blacker dreams,
Elation Excitement Exhaustion DEEP Damnation,
Language spews forth coughing and spluttering and birthing breathing
stillborn raging and relentlessly teeming,
Plaguing festering daring to live on the life-death page.
As acrid as an arsenic pregnated wasteland and a back garden
shed,
And as ironic as a passion-flower bed of wasted years, too-busy
years,
of bleak belligerent be-nothingness years,
Until gravity pulls and fire soothes and smoothes my ever joyous
despair.

Self-pity,
It's what I do best,
It's what I'm known for,
My act is the toast of the town,
Fill me with murk and good God and a helping of stench,
And I'll perform,
I can fest,
Uneven unkempt unmade unlaid unfucked,
But,
See me later and I'll give you the real stuff,
Under the counter in a nice brown paper bag with a thank you card and a
silver tag,
And I will seduce you with stories of far far away with brightly
coloured times lost in the hay.

Trust me I'm a poet, I confess.