Monday, January 8, 2007

Tom Kelly


He marks the scratch card,
scraping silver
where fortune lies.

His slippers shuffle,
take on a life of their own.

I see him from a distance,
& he's further away
than he ever wanted to be.

In Your Heart

She only just
makes meat,
needs the cheapest
in everything &
he'll not work again.

The house:
edges off paint work,
carpets rice-paper thin.

You can't get anything
without debt
an abyss,
rat in your heart.

Pain Closes In

& attention to detail
is what I don't like:
trembling my lip,
mouth tasting
as if I've sucked tin.

Pain closes in
burning shoulder blades
sleeping in patches
getting use to sack cloth & ashes
& nails that twist, slowly.

At The End Of The Day

going up the dark stairs,
voices rise & call
from the past,
odd phrases making nonsense.

I meet your cough and muttering sleep
as a breeze pulses curtains
& taxis save the world.

Your knickers & tights
make love on the bedroom floor.

Next door extinguishes night,
their living room light running out of garden,
as the end of the day meets us again.

In The End

he couldn't watch TV,
hurt to see violence,
rather listen to sentimental songs,
drink cheap wine,
go to bed early.

I caught him
too often
in his pajamas.
I'd leave early
- at the ritual.

In the hospital, his voice
nearly gone,
he mouthed fears
as if blowing on glass
trying, at last, to make an impression.

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