Some people

write,

just to write

and they are

marvellous.

That night, I drank more than the piano
I drank the piano under the stool
you sat down next to me,God knows why,
the place was empty.
But I obliged your choice & asked you for a cigarette
none the less & all the same- for your trouble.

As we talked, you squaked, but I was all yours,
and as you spoke and I stared at the wall,
just to the left of your left eye
I told you all about Edward laine, my alter ego
and you seemed to get on just fine.

When our night was over, you added my name to your list
and wrapped yourself up in my broken arms.
...and I knew on day one that day two would never be
'*** with you all chichi and me just me,
we could never be, could we?

I have been beginning to notice
that I(and I may not be alone)
always look at the past
through a marigold monocle.

This, meaning nothing now
ever seems to be joyous
or gay or splendiferous
until it is a past memory.
A cobweb.
A rafter.
A leaf on the ground.

…I guess.

The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’
including..
Mercury,
hydrogen hydroxide,
fountain pens,
the lost dates of calenders,
various small woodland animals,
including…
Voles,
rabbits & field mice.
Other such things as…
Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)
feelings of remorse and regret,
the stolen trinkets of past lovers,
and of course,
white blood cells,
pesticides,
and the second hand
from a 1956 ’hamilton railroad’ pocket watch.

It was another Sunday
stirring bourbon
in the wing-backed chair,
in the same old place
I always end up in
when im flush.
I saw you at the bar,
said my hellos, smiled
& excepted your drink offer
and sat back down on my own
to squint at the yellow pages
of a Russian novel and try to forget
that I was me(or something, whatever)
and change my scenery.
It didn't take long until
you were dragging me away
up the stairs to kiss me and
turn me to stone, again
(or so I thought anyway)