A blasted plateau Ross would jib
but those round ours could give a name.
Mine to spit on, to crack a rib,
to dupe a skirt or play at fame,
a Babel of broken Amstrads,
an empty scrap in spent shinpads;
lessons in physical arrears
for bitter measures of doormen
who would sequester respect when
we pitched our cuffs in coming years.
A training ground for indolence,
for fathers to escape the fact
their bleary-eyed concupiscence
was all they’d find at home intact,
perpetual muck, plastic bags,
corpulent linesmen, deceased fags,
the seething plug of eye from birds
that knew too well the terrace songs,
the carrion, the carry-ons,
the destroyed cats, the arid words.
Such fields reduce when memory
is fed the punchline, so it goes
to show those formative decrees
are worth the sight up to your nose,
or so I thought. As it turns out
these points exist to crow about
and educate a man to know
the point at which to take the reigns
from antecedent aches and pains.
It wasn’t like this, years ago.
but those round ours could give a name.
Mine to spit on, to crack a rib,
to dupe a skirt or play at fame,
a Babel of broken Amstrads,
an empty scrap in spent shinpads;
lessons in physical arrears
for bitter measures of doormen
who would sequester respect when
we pitched our cuffs in coming years.
A training ground for indolence,
for fathers to escape the fact
their bleary-eyed concupiscence
was all they’d find at home intact,
perpetual muck, plastic bags,
corpulent linesmen, deceased fags,
the seething plug of eye from birds
that knew too well the terrace songs,
the carrion, the carry-ons,
the destroyed cats, the arid words.
Such fields reduce when memory
is fed the punchline, so it goes
to show those formative decrees
are worth the sight up to your nose,
or so I thought. As it turns out
these points exist to crow about
and educate a man to know
the point at which to take the reigns
from antecedent aches and pains.
It wasn’t like this, years ago.