One of John Jones on his anniversary. There's no date on this poem so I'm not sure when it was written. It's called Mr Fantasy and I've taken the liberty of doing some light editing on it. I hope no one minds!
It was around the time
That beer had a password and
the mattress was strained
with the thoughts kept from priests,
That I first ever listened
to the quality of your wisdom.
I had no means of understanding
the sadness from your guitar,
for hadn't I yet to compete
in a game that wasn't cricket.
I hovered; and wasn't to know
there would be blood on the mistletoe,
and no one in the bandstands,
save for Timothy
clutching a well-chilled bottle
of shoplift wine.
He would be looking forward
to the soup run
and I would have to pray
to the moon for him
because it's not much fun
either side of the ladle;
That the kids in our footsteps
would wear badges and earrings,
and all their heads
would be full of emptiness.
Anniversary
One of John Jones on his anniversary. There's no date on this poem so I'm not sure when it was written. It's called Mr Fantasy and I've taken the liberty of doing some light editing on it. I hope no one minds!
It was around the time
That beer had a password and
the mattress was strained
with the thoughts kept from priests,
That I first ever listened
to the quality of your wisdom.
I had no means of understanding
the sadness from your guitar,
for hadn't I yet to compete
in a game that wasn't cricket.
I hovered; and wasn't to know
there would be blood on the mistletoe,
and no one in the bandstands,
save for Timothy
clutching a well-chilled bottle
of shoplift wine.
He would be looking forward
to the soup run
and I would have to pray
to the moon for him
because it's not much fun
either side of the ladle;
That the kids in our footsteps
would wear badges and earrings,
and all their heads
would be full of emptiness.