Hangover Sunday
A blood red eye, a grey sky, a dead guy;
A pissed in glass, a pool of sick, a clock;
A smashed up wardrobe and a torn up tie;
On the kicked in door hangs a broken lock.
There's unwashed dishes, a fire on a meter,
A benefits claim form, cans of baked beans,
A leaflet from a run down theatre,
Tissues by the bed, ****o magazines.
And the green-grey sea crashes gently down:
Gulls shriek above a giggling freckled girl:
The vinegar wind blows newspapers round:
The lamps make stars ****ne in a raindrop's curl.
Clouds move, sunlight drops on the newspaper:
Heart failure; the boring life is safer.
Noise
Awoken by the sound of car alarms;
(He thought) O Jesus, not another day.
Already the cars are going round - and leave
The bitter taste of carbon in the air.
They grind their gears, a torture for the ear.
The flowers strive to stay above the ground:
A paltry offering to break the hue
Of the dull town, monochrome and cruel.
Two alcoholics sit with morning cans
As road sweeper machines rattle by
Through the dog ends and rubbish of last night.
Then hammers then mowers add to the din;
Percussion for ugly voices in the street.
At day's end, he walked to the local park
To seek some peace and wonder would he sleep.
Currently reading Bleak House, rewarding but a bit of a slog (had to
renew it four times). Can anyone recommend a good Iris Murdoch novel?
|
