About Noddy hats
As he nicknames me ‘Big ears’.
Constantly obsessed
With that fucking harp,
Harping on as we dance
In the disco of his voice.
Spotlights on the floor:
Yolks of the sun.
He provokes sarcasm
By telling me I’m the world
As the floor rotates
Around us.
Does the hour glass ever change?
The salt stars never seem to fall.
The shore bitterness is tasted
At the back of the throat.
I wash it down
With a whiskey that won’t quit.
The bitterness he sees later
As this pincer nips at my fools’ pride.
Paris you lied to me.
Paris, you lied.
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