A Month of Bloody Sundays for a Soireè

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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.

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved