Sunday cricket has never been as good as
the Sunday you came back from London.
we sat on cool grass in the shade
you said : like the Spartans at the Hot Gates.
i said : youd be the hottest chick at Thermopylae !
sunday brunch : bacon & egg roll from a gourmet Jewish deli.
you said : i like how theyve forgotten what kosher means
is it Hebrew ?
the picket fences painted pink.
a Chinaman bowling tailenders out on a dustbowl.
7 fer 92.
im trying to paint a picture of happiness
before the cloud comes in.
they came in.
in fast rolling cartwheels.
smelt like yr hair in the morning.
i am remembering all this in a great mall
where its always a perfect 21° under a thousand neon suns.
you are gone.
like the last wicket
middle stump out of the ground.
6 thoughts on “ripped jeans and flannelled fools”
i hold my can.
eat my choc choc.
staring at you
a man with a world that i couldn't touch.
at one stop you said you wanna leave.
when we moved, you said you wanna stay.
at one terrace you were so frickin brave.
but when we walked, you were terrified.
so then i wondered…
how can i relate to you?
how can i feel you?
you have so many cases that i could only read on fiction books. tales or myths perhaps.
but obviously not biography, biology, or pathology.
hope i got more than my ears
hope i got more than my tears
and i'm still holding my can
and i keep staring at you while i can.
that what's happened
when the black so-called metal guy
has come back
his ol' flannel collection
of ol' cobain craze.
ol' cobain played cricket with a mouthful of pills
and a sackful of breathing bills
he said i took those coz my stomach's hurtin'
we said dont touch 'em coz you'll be dead before mornin'
ol' cobain's checkered flannel shirt, ripped at its elbows
my curtains flecked with angel's shit, flipped at tomorrows
before him metals and grind cores are nothing but non-keyboards moanings
after him petals and wind choires are everything that choke my meanings
and i'm still hoping to hold my can
to answer you with a yes and a can
when deep down inside its all a mess
that never ends
gimme the man who sold the world.
these cans are now merely cans
if you're here we can make fun of it
we perhaps could magic-wand it
turn it into a flanneled magic-carpet
it smells like teen spirit
but i'm just getting old
polly said her back hurts
asked for camomile tea
and jasmine candy
polly said her heart breaks
asked for a-ten-mile sea
and a lovin' mommy
polly, come over to daddy
get ready to meet lucy
a black-hooded girlie
i need tea with lithium
i need him and a lil bit cium