If wishes were horses then beggars might ride

I'm so deprived of inspiration I wrote the corniest love poem ever concocted by a human brain. I shall not bore you with it. Instead here's an older poem I wrote months ago. I know it's not the rules, but hopefully I'll come up with something better before Sunday.

Leave the streets empty for me

I sold you books for a beer

Your paintings for peanuts

And bartered your love for a fix

Too easy my fingers

That sweated the handshake

Relaxed on the touch of a kiss

Understand that these lines are a shambles

These fingers too stiff for the words

My head devastated and plastered

With memories too hard to drink short.

I won’t be here this time tomorrow

You’ll find this in mind numbing dawn

I’m sorry my love, sorry, I’m sorry

Three’s not even close to the charm

I've had my vitamins today and felt like taking the first steps towards a longer poem. This is just a draft though.

-Every time I take the tram home I have the same unworldy feeling of movement verses the dark. I don't belong in the tram, but everyone else doesn't either. We are travellers on this small but solid mode of transport that is so predictable in it's tracks. I there every night, same time, roughly same seat and everything else does what it does every night. We are a defeated bunch, on our way home, itching for our stops. And I'm always last to get off.


Homebound

I am two in the window world
Outside dark is eminent but
the night creaks, then budges for Number 6

the carriage's street-lighted tracks
lie heavy as metal in frontwindow future
as soon as behind us lost grip on the night

And filthy beats from the last seat on the left
succumbing to the autumn draft
into my doubled eardrums again.

I am still here, two for the terminus
Where the driver is halfway in bed.