The Blues
by caidoodle on Dec.16, 2011, under pomes, Writing
You befuddle me, boy-child. When needing, alone, a picnic I imagine your offerings to sandwich-cut or basket-pack, your blanket folding skills much superior to the kids’. So along you come, strange, swaying, swooning me, woozering with boozebreath. And I recall that the kids’ breaths are cinnamon-sweet candymeat things (because we raised them oh-so-wrongly). They are starshine eyeballs, they are tearstreak cheeks compared to your pathetic holdings. That’s why little ones take first priority, because they reek of innocence and their stances and grumbling throatsounds let me know that I’m their mainthing. The words that drizzle from me can’t convey you, though, and all is and must be lost. Even the slowstretching babies, their soft smells fading into a simple luminance of life in parks without you. They will only miss you until they forget, and the same goes for me. Every ounce aching for… what? I find that I am disregarded, doodled much better in felt-tip.
