It's hard to think straight this evening.
My head's pounding and it feels as if
the World has taken to dancing
on my chest.
The music's too loud,
The fading sun's still too bright,
and the smoke from my Luckies
hangs too heavy in the air....
...all I want to do is sleep.
But she insist's.
'You said you'd do at least a poem a day
(with weekends off for unruley behaviour)
and all you've done today is lay around watching
South Park and Family Guy.'
'But baby...that's because I'm ill.'
'Right, of course you are,
ill enough to laugh at those damn cartoons,
which, by the way, I have no idea why you
find so funny.
(It's called having a sense of humour-I think to myself)
So if you're healthy enough to watch that
rubbish you're healthy enough to
to write something new.'
I like her,
she's a good woman this blond one,
she has a habit of saving me from myself,
and I know that I'm not the easiest piece
she's ever had to work with
but on days like these
well,
I wish something would happen to her.
Nothing too serious you understand.
Just something to stop that
drone from
busting my balls.
I'd infect her with this
heinous germ,
if I could
only get close enough
to kiss her
but she hasn't been near me
in 2 days....
...besides which,
that surgical mask she's taken to wearing
dosen't really do a great deal
for my libido.
So I smile,
turn my back and
start hammering away at
the keyboard.
I wonder if Bukowski ever had to put up with this.....
Neil Gray
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/written-under-duress/
