Tell her

I want no hope of Tuesday.
I am sick of seeing tables on the street,
sick of her heart, dull as privet.

I'm going to tarnish up my tongue,
wear my hair wet and undone.

Tell her I smoke in bus shelters
burp in the ears of strangers,
let whole handfulls of manners out onto the pavement.

Tell her I never look down
I like to get in the way of prams
love the sting of the suicide bomber fly
loosing hope,
the minute it meets my eye.