When the Poet can’t Save Himself
April 3rd 2009 17:59
Love blew into town
on the back of a hot breeze and
petrol fumes from an idling bus
her skirt, flapping in the stillness
hot bitumen, hot bitch
hot to trot the racehorses
down at the stables
on a bed of moist hay
with not a shovel in sight
but you have to dig loose women
when the council isn’t hiring foremen
harsh economic times and soft flesh
are bedfellows
when the mercury is rising
At night I would read my poems to her
they made no sense
but she wasn’t seeking a reason for anything
she just wanted to live
She asked about the lack of rhyme
not the lack of reason
and I said, most people don’t know what poetry is
they think it’s rhyming doggerel
or mush, or saving the world
when the poet can’t save himself
She accepted that, accepted me
and we just lived –
two crazies on the dance floor of life
making up our own movements
with not a judge in sight
We gave each other 10.
on the back of a hot breeze and
petrol fumes from an idling bus
her skirt, flapping in the stillness
hot bitumen, hot bitch
hot to trot the racehorses
down at the stables
on a bed of moist hay
with not a shovel in sight
but you have to dig loose women
when the council isn’t hiring foremen
harsh economic times and soft flesh
are bedfellows
when the mercury is rising
At night I would read my poems to her
they made no sense
but she wasn’t seeking a reason for anything
she just wanted to live
She asked about the lack of rhyme
not the lack of reason
and I said, most people don’t know what poetry is
they think it’s rhyming doggerel
or mush, or saving the world
when the poet can’t save himself
She accepted that, accepted me
and we just lived –
two crazies on the dance floor of life
making up our own movements
with not a judge in sight
We gave each other 10.
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