Drawing lines with brittle bones
circling round the traffic cones.
Sometimes I join them, sit in stone.
The traffic today looks like a lantern parade.
The wind tickles the aerials
but they're too busy showing us Sky Sports.
Read the signs just like a score,
holding out for something more.
The woman like the zebra crossing
lies in pieces on the asphalt;
people crossing, stepping on her back.
(Pick up your present off the tarmac)
The traffic lights don't feel alright
'cause half the time the green has got the blues.
Christmas is creased
from the weight
of a year's worth of disappointments.
See it unfold
catch a cold
put your fear in a tinsel chokehold.
Driving round the parking lot,
managing to get myself lost.
I can't find a space behind the windscreen of my eyes.
And with a red nose by the glove compartment,
eyes are peeking over the dashboard.
I take the bus 'cause it feels right
to be led home by distant dialtones.
Christmas is creased
from the weight
of a year's worth of disappointments.
See it unfold
catch a cold
put your fear in a tinsel chokehold.
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