Sunday survival school. (shitty, half-assed poetry for a shitty, half-assed day )

Thanks for coming Sunday,

im sure the churches ceiling was pleased with all those heads bowed down,

the pigeon angels counting coughs and coins clinking. 

Fathers with their little girls eating ice scream in the park on visiting day.

The squirells of new york praying for fangs or canines or wings.

Miami bums feasting on human droppings, hanging out in front of bars,

Carfulls of people rolling off cliffs, hands pressed against the glass,

their shouts trapped inside.

Hospitals full of Saturday night casualties,

and entire towns full of broke, roaming hangovers,

All those phone calls paid by the minute on Sunday,

“how is he?”, “where are you?”, ” I dont care!”

The music from the bars getting louder before fading away.

Thanks for letting me wade through a pot of simmering Sunday drunks,

tugging on my arm and over shaking hands the way drunks do,

happy, tree trunk hood ornaments the lot of ’em. 

Thanks for letting me at my pack of Premiers unscathed.

I can hear the singing from here.

Sundays are for pubs and tree stumps and for getting some,

and forgetting and something else I forgot.

Thanks for letting me survive this un-survivable Sunday,

for me, it really doesn’t mean alot.



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