There will be a day when there no longer will be a perfect day
Rainbows will bleed colours and the sky will be stained
Of Pukeypinks and slimyyellows,
The whispering couples would no longer be heard
Ambushed in concrete brothels,
Hung like a clumsy kiss on brittle whiskey-dried lips.
Their ghosts will visit us for dinners everyday,
Smelling of scandal and mudcakes, from the neighbourhood bar.
Where Poetry (like this) would fetch, only a few misdirected stones
Scarred of the lover’s curse and lip-stick marks
There would be noise but of the unholy kind
Elvis died in nineteen ninety seven, his soul still suffering from insomnia.
Whodunit fights would decay the innocence of the infantile rosebud
Plagued by a very deadly unsympathetic pathogen
Till then.. drink the wine from your lover’s eye
hold hands and form cupcakes on a rainy night
strum Dylan to her after work, by the beach
and write about the naked encounters with fishermen and freud
hide where the moon cant find, the lambency of a libidinal night
consume love before love consumes you.
Weave no promises because tomorrow will be gone
Like the ash from an astray ashtray
Colour it now with majestic magenta and passionate purples
Because there will a day when there will no longer be a perfect day.