Where we last met

that Sunday at the ruins,

amongst the grey and mottled stone;

tourists and drop outs glanced

with dark carrion sonata ways,

behind the jackdaw's Polaroid eyes

 

Where we last met

that Monday at the park,

painted by the willows and the duckponds,

geese and squirrels intimidated us,

with alter educated egos,

while citizens begged for crumbs.

 

Where we last met

that Tuesday at the baths,

congealed and sunk by harmony waves,

penguins and flamingos spied,

with buying flirts of nature,

as the naked sold their flesh.

 

Where we last met

that Wednesday at the pub

inside the pool players heads,

the old and young mingled

with conspicuous value,

because the ale on tap was free.

 

Where we last met

that Thursday at the poetry night,

surreal and the unreal made war

with gothic and blasphemous conducts,

flavoured with unripe wine.

 

Where we last met

that Friday at noon on the bridge,

the waters flooded and matured

in mass swirling quantity,

because of torrential rage.

 

Where we last met

that Saturday at my flat,

we made love on a bed of giraffes

while they panicked and took flight,

because a lion stalked the room.

 

Where we last met

that Sunday at the cemetery,

snakes and lizards basked

in unholy matrimony,

where we knew that this was our end.

 

And we never did meet again.