On the Rocks.
That antique gramophone
Next to the suffragette lampshade,
Marble time measured in
Vinyl. Look at the dust-jackets:
Mint condition memories.
Warped voices warble in slow
Speed; 33 and a third, switch to
78, put the needle down,
Place it in the wax groove.
Get lost in the soundscape.
Sunday afternoon; Nina
Simone; on the rocks.
When We Were Young.
You fractured my glass jaw again.
Caught me with a sucker-punch,
A lucky left hook to the mouth-bone.
Laid me on the floor again,
Chasing stars; dizzy circles hurtling,
Blood on my lips and teeth on my tongue.
It wasn’t funny. You said it was, but
It wasn’t. Nothing is anymore. Nothing
Makes any sense these days. When we were young we
Thought everything was funny. These days we drink…
Drink whisky, drink vodka, drink gin, drink
Wine, drink cider, drink lighter
Fluid. Anything. Drink. Smoke
Twenty cigarettes a day, pass the time with fighting.
We fell into it by accident, didn’t see it coming, didn’t
Plan anything. We were just kids back then.
We didn’t understand a thing, we
Threw innocence at each other,
Threw ourselves at the walls, threw
Ourselves at each other.
We got lost in the taste of it, the smell of it, the
Evanescent sense of it – so bright at first,
So fleeting – just like the bottle,
Just like everything.