Palais Schönbrunn

Palais Schöbrunn

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A Rather Regular Couple

This is not another poem,
About a rather regular couple,
Who fell in love under the street lights
Of the grossly dissatisfying city of London.

Instead they met in a field,
He was Jesus, and she was off her face
And giggling to themselves
They fell into a ditch.

The electric moment failed,
The kiss was a drunken disaster .
Awkward Eskimo kisses given
As they played at being Jack and Jill.

Two weeks later, they meet again
As fate would have it
In an overly commercialised coffee chain
Feigned tiredness leading to a stained shirt.

Burnt tongues conducted rapier wit,
Trying to outcast their behaviour
As plainly average
Despite the tingles as they shook hands.

She calls one night,
They have dinner the next.
Two months later they’ve gone steady
And her kitchen table breaks.

But then the metaphorical shit hits the pan.
His buxom ex is back,
A complete pain in the ass.
The femme fatale means trouble.

The guy’s a douche–
One kiss couldn’t hurt?
Her heart is smashed into a billion tiny pieces
As he remembers that you can’t live in the past.

Six years later, by chance they meet again.
In the grim streets of Manhattan’s Upper West side.
The general notion is what the hell?
But they still go to dinner anyways.

Reminiscing leads to reliving the proverbial ‘dream’
She’s wary, but still lets him in
Finally they’re happy again.
Perhaps there really is something in American water-hallucinogenics maybe?

This is not another poem,
About a rather regular couple,
Who fell in love under the street lights
Of the grossly dissatisfying city of London.

Rather this is a poem,
About a rather stupid couple
Who like most normal people
Fell in love, and then fucked themselves over and had to start all over again.

Almost

Sorry may be the hardest word to say

(thanks, Blue and Elton John for your  noughties wisdom)

But the word almost?

Almost is the saddest word

Because almost means

You could have,

Should have

But you didn’t quite make it

You were just short.

Even sadder than the word almost,

Is how it describes my life

He almost loved me

We were almost happy

It was almost a magical beginning

A life that could have been

It makes me want to scream.

The worst part about almost,

though,

Is the aftermath

What do you do when all you have is shy of what you need?

What happens when all you have are pieces

And no will to rebuild?

This is almost.

I hate almost.

Most of all I hate that almost applies to me.