Age and Filth
His pipe and a rat cage scent insult his nostrils.
And bring on a warm fluid wretch,
effervescing his gag.
You make every swallow a damn needle task he curses.
as he talks to his arse-hole throat.
A fingernail of honey yellow and black soot,
rakes the dry skin from under his lazy beard
that’s full of food and soap.
Trying to hide his tired pot holed face.
A set of cracked tombstones litter his grey gums and fake a smile.
Made to look twice as think,
by a week of plaque and a life time of cheese and onion crisps.
Yellow eyes and dulled dignity look down at legs and feet that were supposed to walk so many more miles.
A tear drops and another face that he cant remember,
when her looks into his pocket mirror and takes his razor and shaves.
A phone that never rings,
and a door that never feels the wrapping of knuckles.
Trap him into being a carving and nothing more.
A caravan for sickness and solitude.
And his TV that creates his friends,
and his medals that are his memories of those he could touch and smell.
An old film reminds him of that night with his sweetheart
his perfect chin falls onto his worn jumper.
And he sleeps, for too long.
Probably best that he doesn’t wake.