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Bloody Weeds

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  • Bloody Weeds



    The storms of bloody September
    Are swirling in the glass.
    Past thoughts are mixed to buggery,
    And through this haze the king is singing.
    Drinking doubles.
    Spewing wisdom.
    Reeking as he retches his decrees.

    Bent double, seeing double,
    Trouble wherever he goes,
    The king of briars and thorns.
    And in the morning hush,
    The clinking bottles herald him,
    The luscious sound of the lush.
    And over his unfastened lace he trips,
    Flying forward only to lie about the past.

    Behold his royal rancidness,
    The weekend special deal,
    The discriminating drinker,
    The sewer's connoisseur.
    His bloodshot eyes are staggering
    As the world tips backwards to fall upon itself
    Leaving, as always, the long walk home
    But even time has lost its way.

    And so he arrives,
    Shifting and tilting whilst trembling legs dictate his path.
    Perfectly balanced as he stumbles past the garden gate.
    Each movement has become an interpretation of the same,
    The wayward steps of a true artist.

    She kept chrysanthemums. Tulips too.
    The unkempt bed of memories, wilting as they slowly darken.
    Weeds and leaves smothering her gentle morning touch.
    And time will take her garden,
    Just as it took her.

    Ah, but she was a lovely lass. A petal. A rose.
    And kept her garden neat, just as she kept him,
    Loving them both all the sunny days,
    And all the nights were special.

    He let her die, God forgive him.
    Rough ground, seeing someone else's flowers placed in jars,
    The ceremony and the last time he blackened his shoes,
    Goodbye my love, the Biro creasing the card impotently.
    And everyone left before their time.
    Now the only sound is his,
    The drunken thump, unanswered as he roars into the emptiness.

    No flowers now,
    Only that blurred prognosis from long ago,
    Half-pissed and bellowing in the night,
    Growing weeds in his head,
    Entangling his feet till he falls.

    Everything has died except the thistles,
    Stubborn invaders thriving as he does his best to die.
    His royal foot swings at them but strangely misses,
    And with a thump the earth rises up.
    Defeating the king on the field.
    His dirty fingers pulling against the sod,
    To cry once more,
    His tears the only part of him left that's pure.
    Missing she who was his Mrs.
    The chance to say goodbye gone from his grasp,
    And everything else down the drain
    Whilst she had lain alone drinking morphine's drip,
    Irrigated for the last display of summer.
    He too has a bottle to kill the weeds.

    And now the clouds have overtaken his intentions,
    Brilliant though they were.
    Thistle and drunk swaying together,
    Prickly partners, overgrow with green-headed stubble,
    Slowly drinking from the soil.
    Not the man she asked for,
    But true to his nature as the thistle,
    He has become the self-hating plant
    That grew when her back was turned.

    And he crawls towards their house,
    Coming to the place where she knelt and shouted,
    Bloody Weeds.
    The only time she swore.
    Yanking them out while he stood by,
    Pissing merrily on the grass – his clever contribution.
    And for a moment his eyes are clear,
    Seeing now the garden in its true form,
    A refuge from the king.
    Its once neat boundaries an expression of her disgust.
    Roses to hide his degradation.

    At last he finds his feet,
    Rubbing his filthy hands on himself,
    Surveying his kingdom one last time.
    The garden path has become crooked.
    Only drink can lead him down it,
    And away from this place.


  • #2
    And over his unfastened lace he trips,
    Flying forward only to lie about the past.



    Wow! Epic, creative sadness on display here The Great Depression . The above was but one pair of lines that really caught & held my attention. I particularly like the double meaning of lie (to tell an untruth) or lie (remain in a prone position). Wonderfully descriptive and many clever turns of phrase. Very, very nice work.

    As grant hayes would say (where IS he these days?) - top drawer!

    Comment


    • The Great Depression
      Editing a comment
      As ever, thank you for your kind encouragements. It's not an easy read; I just liked the idea of the drunkard's moment of lucidity when he realises his late wife despised him. Not very Christmassy so sorry about that.
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