Lackadaisical But Friendly - Poem by Neil Solan
Quilted negatives upholster cushioned rhymes,
Ruddy curtains splatter their harsh vibrancies over the windows
With striking patterns;
While conspicuous legions
Of worn-out daisies crowd around.
A back dated carpet
Owes much to the cleaners here
And takes nothing from
The long winded ill-treatment it receives.
Walls have many ears
But even they cannot hear my thoughts -
Them with their yellow stained canvasses
From the breaths of a thousand smokers.
A constant clamour can be heard
From outside, wheteher you are purpously listening
But bear this in mind, It will never let you go;
The commotion is constantly resounding.
Oil painted scenes from war's great path
In South-West France
Litter the hallway walls.
As I pass room 109 i'm already pondering
My early morning feed
(And already dreading the Great Wake) .
The sills 'neath the windows
Cry out for a dusting,
But I choose my words with care
As the genitor strolls by.
I'm growing increasingly heedless
As I glance at my watch,
Then back at it again
And I realise I have never had one.
In need of some healing, I head back to my room
With mixed emotions of excitement and sleaze.
And upon my arrival the former is erased
As I hear my lover's snores.
My sighs fill up the room
And restlessness contracts in my veins.
I'm too aroused to sleep
And too tired to do anything else;
My legs are twitching,
My head is ailing
- Maybe if I over-exaggerate my sighs
My lover will awaken.
I stare at her thickly and try to imagine her dreams;
Was I in them?
But it's no good.
She's clinging to the duvet
Like you would dear life,
Her cheeks are glowing like roses in spring,
Her hair falls down like a velveteen dress;
I'd stave off the world
If it wanted my girl.
I kiss her three times
And climb in beside her,
I'm somewhat somnolent now.
And as she starts to stir
I fall slowly into slumber,
It is her turn to sigh,
Her turn to imagine,
My turn to fly.
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