The Rendezvous


The shadows have crept up the train station wall,
Where the hands on the great, yellowed clock do fuck all.
Time is dead. Was our rendezvous here a mistake?
Or is it just fun to be fashionably late
By two hours? It’s more than a little unkind,
To fuck off without saying why you changed your mind.
Still, I turn up my collar; slide down on the bench,
This uncomfortable bastard is giving me trench
Fucking arse. And the seconds crawl on towards death.
I should start a new hobby, like binge drinking meths.
You were meant to be here at twenty to one,
But the time of our meeting has packed up and gone
On some unholy tram ride to fuck only knows.
So I’m going to die here with frost bitten toes
And a pain in my head where my brain’s going rotten,
By the left luggage booth where the shit gets forgotten.


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