Fingers

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My fingers are slums,

Where squalid thoughts go to wander,

Materialise, and be torn asunder,

Pitied like crumbs.


Massacred, mangled, burst:

Now ashtrays are coffins,

And oxygen has toxins, 

The party bus into the New Year, a hearse. 


My fingers are parched,

Pleading for good times to pillage

My insides empty, a love spillage,

The world, starched.


They all agree though, come through,

This year will be better.

But all I can think of is that I'll never forget her,

First year without you.

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