Enough Of This World Poem by David Thomas

cold dark shoulders,
leather bounded and strapped
the night keeps rolling
babumba bumba bumbbb,
what we got left
is nothin but a black lit bulb
and a thousand little hopes,
tucked away neatly in the side
of a nightside dresser,
keeping dust to itself a philosopher's stone
of things now past
the spills on the carpet tell you more and more
whispering their copethetic lies
and their betrayals of the haggard kind,
what lies beneath clean carpets and freshly painted walls
tucked neatly between the cushions on the sofa
and hidden deep in the wood of the chairs,
the house of love is a building of suffer,
enough of this world let us bring in the sludge hammer
timber timber knock us down, bring this house down
and up we build on the new-old ground.