Let’s talk about the weather.
Let’s lay in bed slightly longer, and nearer together.
Hello, how are you?
Let’s talk about the weather.
Let’s decorate the house in pleasure.
I’m just fine thank-you!
Let’s talk about the weather.
Let’s be blind to age and be young forever.
And how are you?
Let’s talk about the weather.
Let’s plan our holidays and remember the last endeavour.
I am good… thank-you!
Hey! Mr Thingmebob! What are you?
Oh I’m similar to you Miss Thingmejig, that is… you are my only clue.
That’s nice! but not useful, I need to know more!
Ok, you’re something forgotten that somebody left before.
Soothing… how charming that I fill that void, really though, i’m less than buoyed!
Listen, we’re something! stick with me, in our confusion… we’ll both be happy!
The face in the dirt in the festivals field
Has always kept quiet, never been revealed
The face in the dirt prefers lying low.
Only appears where grass doesn’t show.
One eye is on the clouds, the other; passers-by.
Never communicates, doesn’t even try.
Drinks from beer spilt and other revolting fluid,
Gobbles dropped food out of view from a steward.
A peeping tom from experiments gone wrong,
The face; never has said cheerio, so long!
It may be under a tent, where someone’s sitting,
Under you’re porta-loo with the smells emitting.
Maybe it’s just enjoying the music, the atmosphere.
When you tell people, make that abundantly clear…
And have a nice time!
My feet; creased and soft, had flattened a balding patch of spikey, dry grass. What’s more, in the dying light; a magnificent faltering bulb of a lowering watt. I created a sundial. My shadow had clocked-me-late, but ever-so carefully, and was fading out (with never a so long or cheerio). The burning star descended in my peripheral, until it hung in its laziest position. Since then, a peculiar theme; as my markered profile has yet to return in daylight; now forever it seems i’m followed by white outlines that duplicate my body in play and in still; from moon or moonless light.
He was all of eighteen summers,
She: just seventeen short winters.
In love; he connected fully with spring,
In love; her longing best served in autumn.
Together they lasted all but four seasons.
And yet years later; as they recall,
They’re split was for no reason at all.
When faces stick to names… then they’re gone completely;
Slow burning from the unsmoked fires of rainbow coloured flame.
As sentences of broken code are pillowed, all memory weathered in sheet lightning, reflections of you lie as you reflect on delayed whispers; that speed you through to inevitable sleep.
“So you see, i think you’ve got the long end of a very short stick!” Said the man.
“You mean the wrong end of the stick!!” Replied the woman.
“Listen, you’re misunderstanding me!”
“Believe me, i’m not, but your phrase is all wrong and frankly, quite ridiculous!”
Little did he know that she was a veteran contestant and all time winner of the Catchphrase television show, and would’nt let this man off the hook easily (tragically, much later, the man felt the sharp end of one and finally had his chips!!)
Gonna get up
Gonna write something
Get up
And write
Write Something
Something great
The best ever
The number one
Gonna get up
Here it comes
Gonna write
Something
Something great
Here it comes now…
Ok, tomorrow then
I Eat Let.ers 