WEEKEND ENDS. (PART I)

Ankle deep in the aftermath
of a town’s festival of litter.
Watching girls dressed in Primarni
frocks walking home to baby sitters
feasting on greasey meat and
cliché compliments from the man
walking with her to a bed that glitters
in the darkness they call a weekend.

Intimate moments spent upside down
inside a house filled with toys.
Nothing more expected from a town
where its people shop inside catalogue
aisles of debt and its men and boys
are fed on a diet of Rugby Leauge
and bravado and Intercourse with
women who they know but have never
met until last night.

Inside the sounds of reality brought with
the morning stew and sobriety.
He flees leaving somebody else to take
their turn inside the soiled sheets
where an innocent heart will break
over time and repetition
of hollow words.


WEEKEND ENDS (PART II)

A labouring diesel engine stands idle outside
an unfamiliar house that smells of children
and deceit. Pictures of cherub faces smiling wide
with missing teeth quicken a pace to a run
down a garden path strewn with dogshit
and the familiarity of last nights papers.

Inside a head the pain of imaginary staplers
forcing alibis and stories between the ready
mix of daylight and its dull grey sky.
A driver asking too many questions
offering hope and fantastical suggestions
of where the night was when he
chose to be anonymous before
coming inside her
and in between his dreams.

To an empty house with its familiar smell
and pictures of cherub faces
smiling wide with missing teeth next to a
picture of the perfect smile.

As the guilt begins to eat
away at his soul.


WEEKEND ENDS (PART III)

The sound of abuse echoes from the street downstairs
through curtains made of nylon she glares
at what is now her past leaving behind exhaust smoke.
Staring at the empty bed she sees herself in the night
her eyes squinting with the reality of empty bottles
and half smoked cigarettes wearing her lipstick.

Inside the bathroom a tap dripping into a sink
resonating its metaphor for her life
as she saw it.

Trying to escape with the men she would
flush down toilets.

If she had a choice.


WEEKEND ENDS (PART IV)

On Sundays filled with a stillness
she returns from walking her thoughts over fields.
A knotted stomach so taut with questions
with their answers she believes she already holds
inside a bleeding heart.

Inside the house she shares and startled
by the man who stares at her through eyes of regret.
Disguised with the sincerity of practice and
shameful years spent lying to himself and others.

No words are necessary now.
Just lies that fill the room with false hope to
paper over walls that will soon come tumbling
for no reason that can ever be explained.

As the front door slams she leaves just a
ring and with her she takes everything
that he ever wanted.

Leaving just guilt to fill
what was once a home
and for now
pictures of smiling children.

I agree with Sophie on this one.
This is brilliant. Very accurate. Very true. Very sad but somehow infinitely inevitable.
I can see the cycle as baby after baby grows up to do the same thing over and over.
I would love to hear this one performed.

I've added the other two parts of the trilogy to the original thread. Does it work? Or should I just keep the original poem?

Fantastic.
It works brilliantly.
I love this and it is great to see the ending of the same sad story from two perspectives.

There's bound to be an unwritten part 4 because you just know that they'll do it again.

Bloody marvelous and it hits home too. Those feelings of guilt and alibis on the rushed journey home...... Most people can relate to that.

The feeling of looking at the empty bed and the mess of lipstick wearing cigarettes and empty cans, resembling the mess that was the night before. I'm sure that many can relate to that also.

I could feel his panic in the taxi ride home and his desperation. regret and worry at returning to an empty house.

I could feel her fuzzy head and regret. I could feel the grubbiness of her house and how she felt.

Maybe you could write a part IV ..... Because as both you and I know, there's bound to be a domestic comes out of that.

This is bloody brilliant, mate. It makes me feel itchy but I love it.

Thanks Darren.
I don't want to turn this into a Star Wars epic - but you're right. It needs one more slant on it. The cheated wife...so for you, standby...

Right Dazza it's finished.
I hope its not too close to the bone. I know you've swam in similar waters to myself.

Like it.

I prefer parts 1 to 3, 'though.

It could have been more dramatic and perhaps more sad. Perhaps closer to the bone than you have gone here. I thought that you may have written about how it usually is, she stays with him even though he cheats because it is easier... she tried leaving before but he's aggressive .... very possessive etc.

Having said that .... your part IV gives the woman some strength and dignity back, although we both know that in the real world of inner city social deprivation this is rare (under these circumstances).

It is nice to see an outcome where he is exposed as the weaker one, rather than the norm. I would have gone for the obvious. I would have bloody well done it in rhyming couplets as well, no doubt so pay no heed to how I would have done it.

Your version is more of a surprise. It is harder hitting. It leaves you with a sense of silence and I can picture the empty house, silent as he sits there alone with his thoughts, wondering how to turn the clock back.

It is very clever and I like it. This would be brilliant performed, I think.