We had half a bottle of brut left over from yesterday, which I am currently in the process of imbibing. Alison has partaken of herself to beddie bows, so I am left down here in the bureau, writing poems.
As you do.
I started writing this poem about, oh, twenty minutes ago. I think it’s quite good. But then again, fizzy alcoholic will arguably make you think anything you want to believe.
Thus - thus! There be only one way to test or confront this unruly hypothesis, and that’s to post what I just wrote and invite all you good folks to say ‘that’s a lavish pile o’ shite', Evelyn’ or - alternately, if you think it’s halfway to goodenoughness, you might just wish to clickety-click that likey-likey button down there and tell me what an ‘oh you are a delight and a love, Evelyn! I so much love attending your dinner-dinner-dinney parties!’.
STFU, Batty Man.
Poem follows. Photo? I’ll find something in the meantime.
Dinner Party
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
I am smudged. It’s my word of the month. I want to love but it’s sliced from my tongue And there are no words to absence this make up. I am subject to grudges They won’t admit but they do, oh yes They luncheon in my absence They pout their better wary breasts And they taunt in the halflight when the candles die And I leave the door open for their leaving. I was spared the ignominy of dinner parties When I was young I was lured That smack on the knee beneath the table When I said something wrong I was young I was lured Into false promises of a safe life I eased into sleep for wanting curiosity And pat me down, yes, indulge me then I don’t know, Forget I was loved once. I leave the door opening for their leaving The music is not to my tastes either I thought you’d be pleased, my alter ego When we were wed that church wept for the disbelief And I leave the door opening for the reprise. We had oysters and mussels to commence We were drenched In the white wine and the lurch to the left We set the rights to the bad world And I left the door open in this heated phase I forgot I was levered once and I curled And I seethed and I am a seamstress I am a tapestry I’ve not drunk enough, as it happens, You’d think I had, eh, husband, You’d think I’d have but no, I will never relent I don’t care anymore When the guests are gone And I wake up in the morning With purple eyes. That is the colour of royalty. So yeah, just goes to show. You must, truly, worship me…
If you would like to tip me a lovely coffee or two, that would be a lovely riposte to a failed dinner party with guests you really never wanted to be there in the first place, but were far too polite to refuse.
It’s ironic, isn’t it - it’s only when you’re older that you realise how often you should have told those guests to never fucking come in the first place.
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