A Gaudy Friend
A poem
What is it to call you friend?
Is it thy quiet tentativeness to my endless grovels
Of that which irks the comfort zone
Like a lighthouse bathed by brine
Awash to white concrete and moulds
Spat fumes of bitter recounts
What is it to know your friendship?
Is it thy playful banter to tipsy roist
Of that which piques my ego
Blaisé laughter, head thrown back
Hidden solitude in a crowd
Passion so exhausting, it hurts the neck
For will you be there
When the hour is dark
And cold rough walls bites the back
The liquor stacked walls fades away from us
That one voice now muffled by thread bare drapes
Acerbic spittle deserts the mouth
And the throat holds dry to hoarse calling
Too silent to be heard by friends so distant now
Their delicate ears to laughters elsewhere
Where hoarse is rare, the lubricated throats
Those uncertain libations on those long friendly hours
When we were alone in a laughing crowd
The moment so sweet
You were quietly afeard
The door creeps closer
And laughter teared eyes opens to silence
Shadows dances just out of sight
And you can’t tell what has disappeared
Stained mahogany, long blackened etchings
The long hard stare at nothingness
The urgent whisper that screams get up
It is up to you and only you to fight your pressing battles
He who knocks my hollow door
That wanton echo, the sophist’s sigh
Sounds rushes through my apartment
And startles my tired abandon
The shut out world begs to come back in
Loud and tiresome, my slumbering souls awaken
Sometimes to friend is to bear the discomfort
And let a helping hand in
For that firm hands that pulls you up
Is that gaudy friend that is true
