This is not the gravy train
it's just Monday
and again
this is not the gravy train,

the roast beef and Yorkshire pud'
have gone,
maybe not for good,
but certainly until next weekend
comes along.

Two cups in and my pupils dilate
as if they're getting ready to give birth
to the coming of today.
I can hardly wait.

Disengaged purple haze
Hearts in hands
a ring of lust
inside the mound
cheating murmurs
gagged sound
head down
on her knees,
if you please
the autumn sounds
of leaves in a chapel
deep underground

Just like a shirt cannot
hide the hurt
or a headache
beneath a hat

nor a heartache in a suit
or cold feet in a boot
or glove for a trembling hand
neither a thought I think
could be bound
by a headband

You may appear
cool, calm and collected
but make-up and costume
cannot hide the bleeding
of a wound thats infected