Canto XXXI

Week nine, and now you’re the size of a grape;
all organs present and you’ve lost your tail,
seven months until you make the leap

from viewless womb into the teary vale.
I’m at the blues bar, early for the stag,
I’m Nially No Mates, solitary male,

adrift from the revery of the pack.
I down my Murphy’s, fire off a few tweets,
outside the sun blazes, inside time drags,

the boys are running thirty minutes late.
I’m counting beats to Howling Wolf’s Evil
you mark the 4-4 of your mother’s heart

the both of us, snug in our darkened bubbles.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Niall O'Sullivan
    Oct 02, 2011 @ 09:05:08

    This was actually written yesterday, but I forgot to publish the draft after finishing it, so please view this as written on the 1st October.


  2. peter litton
    Aug 16, 2012 @ 00:25:25

    Your poetry always leads somewhere … I got to hear Howling Wolf’s Evil on You Tube.


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