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The Cat’s Pyjamas (Chicago Typewriter)

March 15, 2014

onehundredandtwentythree

I’ve a past.
You’ve a past.
I’ve a book.
You’ve a wall.
Was it a thousand times for just one?
Or one time for them all.
I must confess.
I’ve the memories.
But I don’t really recall.
Begging your ghost.
To leave.
Imploring your scent.
To remain.
Eat, love, pray.
Sentimental and sloppy.
But you didn’t need to be sold.
Here’s a story.
From the cheap seats.
Not so passionately told.
Juliet got fat.
Romeo went bald.
Cinderella, Jasmine and Belle.
Are locked.
Archived and aching.
On some dusty cell.
You call it Hades.
And I call it Hell.
Well.
You always were.
A classicist.
You lapped it up.
My stomach was turned.
By the smell.
You always were.
The worlds worst pacifist.
A hypocrite.
Always prepared.
To pretend.
You suffered the worst of it.
To have a story.
To tell.
A handful of white.
And a glassful of oak.
This is the difference.
Between breaking and broke.
Somewhere between.
Pints of Red Stripe.
Rancour, blonde strips.
And cheap coke.
When the love of one lost’s
The sum of your life
You’ve the letters
In the papers.
All you need is the knife.

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From → Poetry

2 Comments
  1. Amazing! I love the imagery and word play and tone of this poem.

  2. This is the way it is spoken thru me as well, I want to know u but would it be like the arm talking to elbow, go to like don’t u think it quickens the same in us?

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