Caught By The Short and Curlys

Contemptuous look from my reflection

provides all the recommended 

daily dosage of self derision, 

or in other words

just desserts, let it all come crashing down; 

I’ve fucked-up, 

again.

(A feral 

earring. Confirmation artefact; hallmarked 

proof of my deceit.)

Circumstantial archaeology and gossip. 

She was such a small mistake, 

a sluttish little size eight. 

Let’s talk about this.  Please.

There’s vengeance in those dagger sharp eyes 

honed and Maybelline underlined.  Lashes flick-whip. 

Tirades of obscenities from lush kissable lips, 

then I face the cold shoulder as if straight from the fridge 

(isn’t that an omen about serving revenge). 

In the pit of your silence; 

I stumble,

fall head long onto broken promises. 

Onto words that cut, that slice,

that hang in the air like a damning curse.

I’m dangling 

by my own sweet nothings.

© 2007  by P.A.Levy

First published by Kerouac's Dog