Then in the Morning
Then in the morning, yawn again – like train tracks batteringwhole silence, Like snaps of thunder
raping strained, downy flinches in the rain.
He calls it The Anti Alarm Clock and
He calls it The uncalled for Hard Cock and
He just says nothing, but thinks that it's wakeful like
sodding earthquakes cancelling the siege.
Oh no, never ever happened. Oh no no never, never believed it.
In the morning you say the Nightswerves insist on
sifting bumpful flour through your eyes
and that this is why you're squinting
and that this is why it might look
like you hate me.
I say fair enough. I nod and tell you how they're also
inclined to shoving small bricks
and dazed nettles behind my wrists
and that this
is why I cannot grip and grip
your gentle,
peeping finger tips.
Love yesterday. The alcohol in the throat gloating
meanly at the tea, saying "They love you
so much less than me, just so much less than me".
Love yesterday, love yesterday
you promised it would always stay –
but I think we gave it all away
by sleeping.
In the morning comes the squeaking like
a tiny mouse. In the morning
we eat pleated silver for breakfast - and on behalf
of Laziness he chews it, until it looks like a bleary newspaper -
and then he spits it in my mouth
and I would rather be here then anywhere else.
Before the morning he said, "There are so many soft songs
I always wanted to fall asleep to – just the next track
is always full of raving, bloody maniacs"
And then he cries a bit.
Please, in the morning yawn again –
it sounds like wolves who hide in caves,
it sounds like you're just really brave
to be here
Because the radio waits
crackling misery and the most Doomful of business.
Poetry by Claire
Read 1078 times
Written on 2005-08-05 at 18:16
Tags Love
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