That bloody clock!
ticking away, oblivious
to the tension stretching
my larynx to breaking point,
reminding my throat
how fucking dry it is
without Vocalzone – my finger,
pointed up when she said
she’d bloody do it.
Rhiannon knew it was
a bit too much to expect
after her long hibernation,
but loved her never-the-less;
hopes, memories and failed dreams.
Sing.
Warm my little husky chops and
Put on a show, but no
it is not this day.
Falsetto minor slapped back
and bit me, packed up
and packed a fucking sad.
Portsmith Club won’t be looking for
quirky.
I’d need to practice
for a month of bloody Sunday’s
before Stevie Nicks invites me back
to her condo for a soireè.
I did her too,
I’ve done her a thousand times
belting out vibrato
in A minor.
Here I am ‘pick me, pick me’
I could sing,
I feel so lonely without her.
My happy place no more.
It’s like dying
a savage kind of
musical death and I’m so scared.
Who can be bothered with a
washed-out-has-been-old-girl
from New Zealand.
I’ll just stay at home
feel sorry for myself a bit more
and cry myself to sleep.
Poetry Out West 