Poetry Hallway - Sunday Sonnet

What do you do with your weekends, human? Do you hide from the world and nurse your bruises? Beware! prefers the outward bound approach. Stride on. Get some thin air through those thickly-stuffed nostrils. Tufts of moss in the turn-ups, freshly pressed faeces on the stout shoes. Shoo! Get out of my restaurant. Goodfellas American Pizzas, made in Ireland. Christ. It's all lies.



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).

Sunday Sonnet by 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