gaffable

3/4 drunk, sitting in a public lounge of an airport can do funny things to your head, and may even make you think you can write poetry. I was in such a situation on Friday, in Perth, on my way home, and punched this out. I'm not putting it in my blog, so I thought I would chuck it here. Never written poetry before (obviously) but I still kinda like it.

One Last Look?

Standing there,
Looking at each other.
Oblivious to all that surrounds.

How could you leave that embrace?
Wouldn't you insist?
Wouldn't you insist she stay longer than possible?
There's plenty of time.

What's a security check between lovers?
Ten fucking more minutes!
Some would die for ten minutes.
To look into those eyes,
Those eyes: selling love. Peddling hope. Promoting dreams.

Do you know what you have?
Do you have any idea?
How much she loves you?
How much she needs you? How much she cares?
Good on ya though. Good on ya man.
You lucky son of a cunt.

Hey, maybe you're a great guy.
Maybe you treat her well.
How else could she look at you like that?
Hold you like that?
But do you really know what you have?
Really?

I hope you do.
She deserves fuck-all less.
But tell me. Tell me, man.
Why don't you look back?
Give her one last comfort?
One last fix?

One little look,
Before you fly.
One last look, one last glance, one last wave,
One last sigh.
But no.
She's leaving.
Looking.
Looking.
Looking.

I've been touched by a Mr James Beam.
The world's finest bourbon - an eight dollar dream.
I'm lost, I'm lonely.
And now sick to my gut.
But still, my good friend.
Youre one son of a cunt.