The rumpled silk chaos
Is almost an addiction,
And the way each littered piece
Of my week rivals for
Foot space like silly, selfish children.
The broken caps of Friday’s whiskey,
Six months on the mend,
Sting my eyes like I’ve swallowed
Something stranger than
The blunt course of action it was
To lick my wounds and leave my job.
Even Nefertiti heeded the warnings,
The hills of her native home
Grinding her bohemian whims
Like broken Sphinx stone.
My dear, what I’m trying to say is
You complain of this mess
That is me as if in being genuine,
The three-day-old garbage and
Un-recycled newspapers, are unnatural.
I beg to differ, there’s still plenty
Of room for our two-day excursions,
The words of your vintage love songs
Serenading me like a six-man quartet,
The only lonely response
To my midnight cup-toss to the slush pile
Before you bruise my shoulder
With your old-man sleep,
Another 2am spent into a slumber
Of old B horror movies andA little too much cold coffee.