Thursday, 10 June 2010

A poem written in a silk shirt that you hated.

Her life was a discoball constructed from shards of shattered bliss


Lies
the blunt but self sharpening things
you bring into the bubble of bliss.

The knife you hold to your wrist
should I threaten to leave.
The new man you prefer to the last man
Who all forget to leave a forwarding address when they go
to
meet clandestinely in the pub

To discuss
the blunt but self sharpening things

You leave lying around

Amid shards of bliss.

Oh. And bullshit.

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