Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Tom Cruise Hangover

(Homophonic translation of the original)

Why, in the wild’s worst calm, intuit
icy interior, sing in the treble/bass mock-wail I hate?
Inelegant, sweating, thinking of string-thin shysters and sheikhs,
I stretch on your couch,
a passion faded, mooch
from self-hate humour
to wallow-flume and grimmer.
My crocked lungs wince. Find some nosh,
I think, feral.
Some Weetos? Scoff
a sneaked chink of cheese-filled pasty?
Nice to see
your kitchen’s busy –
and organised!
All earth hammers,
with ringing shore-song,
my brain’s glad gong.
I’m already sure but the note you wrote (Best behaviour my butt! )
confirms I went a bit ogre.
I hope I didn’t call Deb a slut.

-Jon Stone

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