Sunday Afternoon (Pirates Of The Medways And Weald Poem by James Hull

I would like an hour with bread and butter
My wallet in a guillotine shaking at its imminent demise
This hour would entail soft hands around my rib cage
So if I closed my eyes my chest would feel like an Escher painting
It would be the hour after the end of play, mud encrusted boots
Carbon dioxide vapors and the euphoria of radiators
that burn right through a red and blue polyester shirt
and comfortably cook the frosty skin on my back
While the wind fearfully whistles through the keyhole
High pitched like a mob of babies laughing
Or a parade of teachers scraping their blackboards
In a wooden chair stroking a cat, I'd spend on hour doing that
Or in an unmade bed watching the television act the day away
Or playing single player and controlling the whole team
Avid joypad adolescent reflex junkies know what I mean
An hour of remembrance and innocent illustrious joy
For the fallen hours lovingly remembered as 'this morning'
This hour is soaked with the rest of my filth in a lukewarm bath
While I rhythmically create tidal systems with my limbs
And wonder if I will ever be a sailor or own a terrapin
Bottled up scented aromas crash heavily around my nostrils
I'll immerse my head just to flood my eardrums, all at sea.
The tap-click -tap of mother slicing cucumbers downstairs
sounds like a battlefield in the bath tubs sub-aquatic ambiance.
I'm the silent spirit above the brutal vegetable battery.