every day we sit around imaginary fires,
replaying other losses on a level playing cricket field.
We compensate your mediocrities by your tall tales
Of bikes moaning like raped hookers, across silent Eyre’s.
New money New shoes New Rich bikes New bitches to brew.
of flutes cut and dregs unchained,
over play pens and good boy sins.
hidden deep inside
wayfarer toilets; of masturbation.
every sundown we sit around your circle; your circle of hate.
listening to limestone cracks, the newest shitcake.
exaggeration winging it, a solar punch, an old school plexus run.
Lying down on a narrow bike seat. Your idea of fun!
Elsewhere.
she plays dumb, prefers the old school dumpster meeting in silence. Or the local Pentecostal bad boy and his one-hour evening advice sessions. Or playing dutiful daughter, Or playing tad dumb.
she leaves me out with the boys. To hang dry
pissing on their mercy I build skyscape dreams as towers cower in suspense over once green paddy shit.
All watched by. A once blue sky.
Photo by Louise Whelan on Unsplash
