May. 18th, 2007

Minibreak

May. 18th, 2007 02:12 pm
We made it clear that we were just good friends:
"You need a salsa partner, so do I."
No thoughts of other, horizontal, ends.
My wounds too deep, I was unfit to try.

I didn't make for easy company,
and yet, a spark, a glimmer, a new flame.
How best to stoke this new-found love with me?
Well, "Bridget Jones's Diary"'s to blame.

It's "not just shagging" see, to go away:
A long weekend in Wales; a nice hotel;
A comfortable room in which to stay;
the sea to swim in, and our love as well.

A loaf of wine, a jug of bread, and thou.
Our minibreak is paradise enow.
The best thing for the children is for us to call it quits.
We won't go to a counsellor, 'cause they're a bunch of twits.
I'll take the kids to Manchester, and you must stay behind.
The best thing for the children is for you to lose your mind.

The best thing for the children is to go behind your back.
To hire a solicitor (who some might call a hack).
To keep a secret diary of every angry word.
The best thing for the children is to treat you like a turd.

The best thing for the children is to summon you to court.
To ask a judge to order that you will do as you ought.
To lie in witness statements and to paint you as a brute.
The best thing for the children is to go the legal route.

The best thing for the children is to keep them from their dad.
To help them to forget about the happy life they had.
To leave behind their schools and friends, their comfortable home.
The best thing for the children is to learn to live alone.

The best thing for the children is to shack up with some guy,
who hardly sees his own kids: it's best not to ask why.
He calls me 'slut' and 'bitch' and says that I'm a lousy mum.
The best thing for the children is to wait for worse to come.

The best thing for the children is to go to court again,
To fight over the money and to put us through more pain.
To dispute all the numbers and to hope you lose your shirt.
The best thing for the children is to drag you in the dirt.

I put the children first, you see, as I pulled them apart.
I cared for them and loved them with a mother's tender heart.
Their interests are paramount, their happiness is key:
The best thing for the children is whatever pleases me.
What good's a poet when he's lost for words?
There are no rhymes for silent reverie.
A song without a lyric's for the birds:
their chatter wakes but doesn't inspire me.

My muse has left; her leaving was the spark
that lit my fuse, that set my mind aflame,
that launched my mental rocket in its arc
and then went out - the metaphor's to blame.

Two dozen sonnets, some of them quite good,
burned from my pen, my soul they did convey.
My love, my loss, my anger understood.
Now, "having writ", I've nothing left to say.

I turn the page, but all the words that come
are just te-tum te-tum te-tum te-tum.

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