Nothing is a balloon before and after popping.
Nonsense.
Yes.
Quite so.
Nothing is a ball before and after its kicking.
Genius.
Yes.
Quite so.

Lip-syncing hymns in the front row of a funeral.

Appearances are key.

Pinch nose for tears as the sighs swell and fill the room.

Appearances are key.

Lift your glass to the lost and try and mask your jealousy.

Appearances are key.

Say something that sounds from the heart but's really from a card.

Appearances are key

A diazepam apology never escaped my lips.
Eyes spun,
                    lips sealed,  
and not one word graced your ears.

Each pill stuck in my throat with the longing to say.
Too soon,
                  Too easy
forgotten, and the day turned in and I soon followed.

Each moment is a moaning teenager in my head.
Too much,
                   Too little
chances to take or people to meet or places to start again.

And today is no different.
But I do hope to see you soon.

Inside me is a stranger, a queer and frightened freak.
A frayed rope smile and on a face crafted from straw.
Rocking-horse knees that stand his scarecrow posture.
Her staccato limbed demeanour's too awkward for company.

I used to let him out in the safe homes of friends,
where judgements eyes never burned on the back of her head.
One night, a boy with bullying hands threw him to the floor
and pounded her fist after fist in a burning fury.  

Now he won't come out.
She doesn't know who she is.  
And they're sick of being told who they should be.

She had a tears before bedtime twinkle in her eye,
and a don't come too close shimmy in her shake.
He had a predatory grin salivating through the teeth
and hands that knew no jurisdiction.

He put a forget me tomorrow at the bottom of a drink
and handed her it to her like it was wrapped in a bow.
She sipped through her straw with a delicate smile,
all the while wishing she could go home.

She was bagged into a taxi at the stroke of two
by the boy with the bullying hands.
She was passed out on his couch when the morning came
while he slept in the scene of his crime.

She wore a cauliflower dress on her ballerina bones
and a stare that would avert a devil’s gaze.
Her legs were swinging to a three-four time daydream of tomorrow
as she looked out over the park where she grew up.
The black ink pond water shivered as the moonlight
danced upon her and made her feel awkward in her movement.  
Then she took off her clothes and went swimming in the dark,
and went under never to come up.

She did this once a week.

And a bevy of swans cried, laughing in the night
with a much-a-do about nothing in their voice.  
Eight white dresses swimming without care,
over where she did the Houdini, moon-soaked routine.

Waiting can be a madman clawing his own skin.
It can be drying paint, dying libido, or crying dogs
at the window watching a car roll off.
Sometimes waiting is just a phone that never buzzes.

I’m still waiting.

Hunks of meat swinging and forced screaming,
I remember, would always do the trick.
Now it sends a hollow feeling rushing to nowhere.
Now I feel like I’m watching a reality show.

SOME SCENES ARE CREATED FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT.

This programme contains product placement.

The pair of air Nikes she keeps on while bent over.
The Maurice Lacroix watch he wears while spanking her.
It is a nice watch; they are nice trainers.
She is beautiful; he is handsome.

But, I’m still waiting.

The predictable ****** comes and goes.
The conclusion’s always the same.
It never used to bother me, the farce of it all.
It used to do the trick.

But, I’m still waiting.