I turn, I turn, a
Broken thread
Around a finger.
It’s gone blue.
My fragments, my feelings,
I’ve kept setting fire to
I stare, very tired,
Into glowing coals.
I rake them up
And know my words to you
Were desperate sparks
Hunting for scraps of new fuel.
Like hungry dirty children
With broken finger

I know I have been
So very cruel
To you and
made you cry,
But you got the best of me
And made wine, so much wine,
got drunk on a case load
Of my efferverscent Love.
Our hangover spanned the ages
I kneel down and knelt down
and press my face
And pressed my face
And would press my face still,
To your belly, soft there,
Cold silk, and the beat of your
Whispering blood,
And hear the whispered words
Of a thousand cynics I left
Behind, left behind! I did –
Not for long.
I’m left with the cynics
They are left with Me,
They want the worst of me to
Shine through,
My bitterness is that: a
Stem cutting through me
And the panic
as I tread
Memories through a dread
City alive with electric girls
And a mocking irony
That makes a mockery
Of me:
I’m sorry.
Very sorry.

Published by gurdeepmattu

I’m an author and publisher. I live and work in London and am the author of “Sons and Fascination” (2011, Paperbooks). It's available here: http://amzn.to/eaTVCx

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