I think that Donald Trump’s wig
would make a good Presidential candidate.
It goes whichever way the wind blows.
There is a certain kind of honesty in that.
I am not sure if Hillary Clinton’s wig would be any good.
That fucker doesn’t care what the wind is up to.
Jeb Bush’s wig is just fine.
But his family have a penchant for bombing brown people.
Last week the farmers protested about the falling prices of meat and dairy,
they claim that they are struggling to make a living.
Yesterday the tobacconists protested about the rising price of cigarettes,
they say that some smokers will give up the habit.
With farm-reared meat and dairy more affordable,
and less people smoking.
The politicians will have plenty of people to eat.
They were going yesterday and they are gone today.
I only have memories were I used to have three beating hearts.
Bukowski taught me that there is nothing worse than too late,
But I believe that the only thing worse than too late is too long.
Too long since hello.
Too long since I miss you.
Too long since I love you.
Time to wash the sheets, vacuum the floor, take out the garbage.
It’ll be like they weren’t even here.
Even the dog is upset, he hasn’t chewed my shoes since they left.
Things are terribly wrong.
The train howls
Pouring steam over the years
Sons, daughters and grandchildren crowd her bed
They watch and wait and weep
Her life leaks out
Death creeps in……..
Behind her eyes dances the flowers of more than seventy springs
Her ears echo with the first words of her children
Her feet are stained green from skipping across the freshly cut lawn of her parents house
Her thin crown of grey hair remembers shining honey colored and falling below her shoulders
The train growls diesel as the wheels turn
Between her legs throbs the beautiful agony from her wedding night and the thousands of nights that followed
Her fingers twitch, manipulating a needle and thread
Her voice is an Autumn morning
Her laugh; a Summer thunderstorm
Both are silent now
The name of the man that widowed her brushes over her lips
She tries to say his name now, gulping soundlessly at the air
They all lean in close, like sunflowers yearning for more from the sky
The train whispers into the neon lit station
The doors of the carriage open
And she melts into the night.
I saw too many young men lose themselves in afternoon pints that transformed so easily into large whiskies, weeknight lines and weekend grams.
Motivation lost in the pre-dawn of days beginning with paracetamol and coffee blacker than the worst of moods and blitz era London skies.
Men that prided themselves on flirtations with the law and bruised knuckles.
Men that promised the world and delivered only promises.
Men waiting, waiting, waiting. Anxious to hear the sounds of their shackles falling to the floor.
Loathsome arrogance.
Misdirected prejudices.
Money buying happiness in small envelopes behind the locked doors of late night toilets.
Men riding the ethereal chemical burn.
Hot blood in their veins and nostrils stuffed with four different soils of South America.
Let them ride. Let them go.
Only three cigarettes left.
thetypewriteraddiction 