Sunday, 11 October 2009


Sunday tumbles out of Saturday’s mouth
And shouts Please;
Leave me alone.
Slumped in the space between the pressure
Cooker’s release valve and
It’s heating;
Just where it works the best, with rest's credit
Pledged for everybody’s
Use and accrual.

But do we listen? Do we heed the strident
Cries of anguish in
Its provision?
No; we steam straight thru evening’s skin
And into its dawn
Calling for more:
More wine, more weed, more sake to slake
The hunger of our
Wide desires;

Scuttling from the must have beens and
Surely weres and
Upon its morning without a following to
Honour our excess,
And its effects,
And expecting Sunday to pamper us
Until the working
Week dampens.

1 comment:

  1. Love the first line. My days are all a constant blur, always interchangeable. My buddy MUST have Friday & Saturday off for reasons I don't understand. In time & with a little drive the days of the week will have significance for me. I want Sunday hangovers & regrets just like normal people. Damn I like that first stanza