The sitting room

I seen them come and watched them go
and I know
not one of those spoke of Michelangelo,
it was all about the latest date,
the tricks of men and fate
the risky business, foreplay for the
afternoon,
Spotify,
don’t come too soon, but never
Michelangelo.

When and what brings me to
this junction of people,
this queue of
lonely,
this hunger monger looks into space and
he looks at himself and his face doesn’t fit,
mirror
mirror
on the wall
fuck you,
shit,
but that’s childish and so I edit childishly with lipstick from My Auntie V, which was short for Vivian and Viv died back in ’74, not sure why I kept her lipstick but I also kept lots more.
(sore points make for scabby wounds)

And if I cough again I’ll wet myself,
jeez,
you’d think the body could hold itself intact.
I only lack the know how and I know that now
and I know that no one talks of
Michelangelo,
just Bieber and Dicaprio,
time to go?
I guess it is and somewhat so
touching on
Michelangelo
because no one else does.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.