Litkicks Message Board Archive

Time to Leave

Posted to Action Poetry




    Fish faces in the light gurn
    as smoke rises,
    like waterfall mist
    against the tough trees that grow
    through the rocks
    at angles
    towards the water below,
    and then smile as Jimi winds down
    another
    blues
    jam.

    A tray of crushed cans and un
    steady
    wine
    bottles
    with bottoms sitting in fag butts,
    pools of red and white, and a few CD cases,
    falls to the floor
    as the table is upturned
    by an over-zealous
    guitar
    wind-mill fan
    kicking over his amp [the table]
    and tumbling towards the carpet
    yelling
    "this is rock 'n' roll!"

    And he knew it, we knew it,
    fucking she,
    fucking knew it too,
    that those wine stains
    in the carpet would have
    a great affect on his sex life
    and the ash in his hair
    would mean it's time to leave.