MONTHS ON END.
For months on end
Your mother played
The new Jimi
Hendrix LP
Leaving you and
Your kid sister
Sal to your own
Devices both
Watching her lay
Abed daily
And nightly with
Whomsoever
She had in her
Heart and head and
Bed at that time
Smoking stuff to
Make her easy
To be around
And the Hendrix
Guitar plucking
Out her blues like
One picking out
Fleas from a dog's
Hide and your kid
Sister saying
What the feck is
She doing with
That feller, he's
All over her
Like a warthog
In clover and
You'd shake your head
And spit and sigh
And lifting one
Of your mother's
Smokes from the pack
In one of her
Old smelly coats
You inhaled it
As if all the
Blues and shite and
Men she was then
Shacking with could
All be sucked out
Of the house and
World and the whole
Universe and
Accompanied
On the way with
The last lick of
Hendrix's guitar
On the well worn
LP like an
Old woman just
Sitting straining
For the last pee.
