A Format That ‘Works’
The dip in this attic ceiling, dusty bedspread
An overflowing assortment of cigarettes and spliff ends
Table edge notched like a bedpost, and chair legs
Non existent, we’ll sit on the floor if we have to
Means no more will I have to reassure myself bad news
I’ve given up purpose, shift cursors til they point to you
No more will I have to resort to cheap tricks
Not like I ever did, it’s more your presence that makes me nervous
Or your presents in form of currency, barter purchase
A surreptitious malaise engraved so one day
On your headstone it’ll say, “he pushed all of his friends away”
Your weekend escapes are only short term diversion
But you know that, not yet for you is it time for curtains
Mugs for tea in place of ashtrays, awake on match day, two tastes mergin’
In place of lethargy, outdoor rays on dirty skin
Inhibitions so dirty, menacing, socially acquainted to the 7 deadly sins
A rip in the atmosphere, tide flows in opposite directions
And not to mention, you’re a dick who needs to learn his lesson
A reformed body of self-acclaimed masterclass and arrogantly post-effective writing talent presented to you through Manchester-born, internet-grown poet zealot, James Hodson.