Tonight's poetic gem heart is a sad indictment of modern Britain. How does anybody get anything done when we're all so ruddy cynical and depressed?
|Sunday, bloody Sunday (Andy Brain).|
A weekend, solo, yawning with options.
I ponder protests. Projects. Games. Girls. Guilt.Some respite from the rain, though now too late
for our recycling bins, infusing slow.
On sodden Sundays such as this, a roast
restores good faith; and crumble sets the seal.
No such succour, sadly. Sit-ups rendered
pointless by crisps, ice-cream, packet crap. Still,with purring Hoover under my command,
I prance about this sty, chase flies, chase flies.
Catch myself in the mirror. Don't like it.
No muscle on this frame; pale, flaky, twigs
and overspilling head. Tired teeth retreat.
A weekend, solo, empty and soulless.
"Prozac-ah! It's a good life." - Mark E Smith