Love and the death of love played out on a race course |
I never heard the thud or the pound Of the hooves raking divots In the uneven ground Of a once sturdy union that pivots To nose-dive blindly off course down and hell bound To reposition at the rear, to chase after the pack To be the non-runners on this hectic race track That we called love I was oblivious to the rasping And the scraping of horse shoe metal That oily smell that has you gasping For windows in search of petals Of early summer flowers in the grounds of ivory towers That provide a much more tolerable aroma That we used to add fragrant substance to a terrible misnomer That we called love I was ignorant to the fact That the flag had been raised That signals the very last lap In this, the very last race It was then that I noticed how tired…how easily I perspired And I wondered how many spectators cards Had written, in inverted coma’s ‘to the knackers yard’… ‘And the dog food tins of love’ A marriage certificate gets ripped With as much angry contrition As a losing betting slip When you realize your horse is in last position And now the hooves merely stumble and trot But still the nags head condescendingly nods And the heavy shoes churn up the turf and the sods And the sticky mud that we called love That laden ass, that donkey of doom Which lost before it even began On that same afternoon Never even qualifying as an also ran Just a wooden horse, or a Trojan divorce A symbolic equine mockery A splintered seat for the tender rear end of ‘jockery’ A horse called divorce A neeeey-sayer of love |