as sunlight chokes on moon,
a wedding band stomping its welcomes
to death - AC/DC, Garth Brooks, James Blunt -
a frightened cocktail we leave the dancefloor
at light speed to avoid. At that point where night and morning
tear each other to pieces like a cock fight
behind closed doors in a bar ethnic slurs look for,
we’re a bloodbath of lost opportunity, a bullet-hole
where life somehow missed us, and filled
the merest of mortal farm boys with itself instead.
You’re asleep. You have been 5 hours. What a shame it would be to wake you
after our ordeals. The television’s perched
like a moose-skull with glass-eyes on walls in Vermont bars,
Knight Rider a shell that dust drags itself around - like
flies scurrying to introduce themselves to their latest corpse;
Here is the reality of Sunday - like collapsed walls in
child-labour workhouses, weeping eyes, rubble-torn hands.
Michael Knight tangles my entire lifeline
in retro-denim, scuff-mark leather jackets, as you sleep
with dreams of jazz-bands in Milan,
weddings few can attend.
Let’s make this our song, baby; Michael Knight's about to sing -
I want us to listen
About John Doyle:
John Doyle is at present watching Rocky V and wondering why he could have been at such a loose-end to be reduced to this, I mean, seriously...
He accepts all major credit cards, but will start dancing a whole lot sooner if you just point a gun at his feet and fire at will.
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