Friday, 20 April 2012

Sonnet 007

Down, down we go as frosted thoughts gleam,
Spitting questions till everybody's gone
But the upstart boy, his unreal kisses
Thrown to empty stalls from his patch of light.
His cub scout hygiene shines like a new law.
The flesh falls soft from him; a red silk dress.
All alone, his thoughts stretch limbs and he laughs.

Till the cleared throat from the dark undoes him.
And this is how the theatre always goes:
Kicking out the punters, making spaces,
Some corner for a solitary fag.
The old bruiser's always there in the wings,
Waiting to make his omnipresence felt
And call halt to our solitary games

No comments:

Post a Comment