my dreams for you in my head will always be that you wouldn't ruin yourself
if you have had a son.
you would've held him up in the air, like a hand mirror, like wielding a shiny sword
and you would've seen god
reflected in him.
you would see yourself in him.
some things just are not possible with inexact paraphernalia.
as i listened to bonehead bank holiday i had an epiphany:
forever will i be charmed by aloofness, until i am not.
the boys i give myself to are fools, jesters, indifferent, loose, amusing.
the woman i am, rue and shatter.
sobriety is shaking with feverish anger and deluding myself that a white lighter
and marlboro reds unties bunched-up nerves.
it's tying cherry knots,
it's seeing fibre of my being in the colour of you,
blue and bruised, mad at the world that you're too good for the cards
dealt to you.
so you rue. unmoving, letting the world pass you by, you,
would've raised him a cowboy, a sailor, a girl.
instead, you raised me a man.
turn on the television, some debating theology
the host me, panel me, audience me.
my morning show is airing in my head.
for a heathen myself, i talk god too much, about and to.
the fact that the only thing i'd ask for could
never be given.
the beautiful thing has passed.
i sat at the train station, smoking my last cigarette swearing i'd quit tomorrow.
to have and to lose is how i supposed it should be. we should all have
a turn at it.
that's what i naively believe anyways.
