Saturday, 20 June 2009

Floating downstream.

I was dead weight, dead-pan; strung out far,
Like a solo bass line on a bass guitar.
A recurring dream; a sunk paddle boat.
A shit moving downstream eager to float.
I was lead-heavy, bed-ready; always fatigued;
Like I needed rest so I could get more sleep.
A chump in a dump rutting through trash.
As plain as sausage, beans and mash.
I was constipated until I met you.
My feelings were bunged and I couldn't poo.
I was a torch in the night with my batteries dead.
I was fallout and almost everyone had fled.*

*The worst thing is that this poem still applies to me! (The preceding exclamation mark masks a profound sense of despair.)

No comments:

Post a Comment