Friday, 6 May 2016

No Poems For The pothead

Crashing through doors,
And spilling coffee,
On the floor,
Tripping over nothing,
As the hall swerves to the right,
I swear.
Wondering what I came in here for?
Let’s look at online news…
As I eat my breakfast,
Just for a minute…
…those French provincial doors
look sweet,
as dusk falls.
Staring at the screen.
Gosh I’m hungry,
My head is spinning,
Perhaps, I might lie down.
Bloody hell,
This garden
Is so over grown.


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