SUNDAYS 87



Sunday is an unloved day
Nothing much happens
Tedium turns to anger

I bathe and wash my hair
This takes care of an hour
I do not shave today

Disliked this day long before school
Three of us would sit for the meal and argue
I hid what I didn’t want to eat
Under the arch of the cupboard

The day before another week of dischord
HOMEWORK
Last minute Maths and French
To be caught up with in closing hours

These days, I bed early for work
And prepare sandwiches
(The wildly exciting sandwiches of the working man)
Check for headache pills in pockets
Hankerchieves and rations of cash

Always a frustration day on guitar
Hard to write on the day when I can really taste
The chemicals in my cigarettes

A day to clear the mind in worship?
Empty it of illusion
Concentrate on nothing
Till the self destructs again
And strip search of doubt starts


Sunday’s a day for decay
Sunday’s a day for decay.



/// Still a dreary day, unless worked on,
two Saturdays/Fridays would be better.///