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Entry tags:
P: "Loops"
Loops
Notes: Somewhat free-from poetry
Content: Merlin RPF, Bradley, implied Bradley/Georgia, PG-13
Loops
He'd have bought a box of fruit loops to go with the fucked up skimmed milk,
should have,
shaken it once for an explosion of happy over the kitchen counter.
He'd have, if he'd known --
car crash, severed heads, death note tacked to the foot of the bed
(video games) --
to create an explosion of happy just for himself.
Daytime telly with a few laughs over one-note tracks,
the sofa has a dip in the middle that he inevitably,
always,
parks his arse in, comfortably sliding into the groove of mono-existence.
He's drinking milk, pretends it's vodka
even at 8 in the morning.
He's drinking milk, pretends he's eating out his girl
(he sloshes his stretched out tongue through,
giving himself glass indents and a beard)
but she's not replied to the last text
or the one before
before the one before that,
and there's a hint.
He manages "yo,"
and a nap after,
staring at the ceiling to wait for a bit of change,
a bit of damp
(he's not thinking pussy)
(much).
Winter always fucks up the things he is or could be,
makes him forget the numbers of friends are saved on his phone,
makes him curl easily,
comfortably,
into the groove of a sat-through sofa,
a slept-through mattress,
a glass of skimmed milk --
what a fucking star.
"Got you Fruit Loops."
The explosion of happy,
mid-afternoon going into evening,
sprays over the kitchen counter.
Toes curled around cereal he finds the number in his phone,
texts her again as he pours some milk into a bowl;
Wriggling his tongue through the loops makes him think of her
but everything does these days,
comfortable groove and daytime television,
winter wonderland,
non-existent damp spots as a metaphor for life in general.
The sofa has a dip in the middle that he inevitably,
always,
slides into:
he wishes it was a metaphor for her pussy
or his career,
but he has to work too much at both to care.
Notes: Somewhat free-from poetry
Content: Merlin RPF, Bradley, implied Bradley/Georgia, PG-13
Loops
He'd have bought a box of fruit loops to go with the fucked up skimmed milk,
should have,
shaken it once for an explosion of happy over the kitchen counter.
He'd have, if he'd known --
car crash, severed heads, death note tacked to the foot of the bed
(video games) --
to create an explosion of happy just for himself.
Daytime telly with a few laughs over one-note tracks,
the sofa has a dip in the middle that he inevitably,
always,
parks his arse in, comfortably sliding into the groove of mono-existence.
He's drinking milk, pretends it's vodka
even at 8 in the morning.
He's drinking milk, pretends he's eating out his girl
(he sloshes his stretched out tongue through,
giving himself glass indents and a beard)
but she's not replied to the last text
or the one before
before the one before that,
and there's a hint.
He manages "yo,"
and a nap after,
staring at the ceiling to wait for a bit of change,
a bit of damp
(he's not thinking pussy)
(much).
Winter always fucks up the things he is or could be,
makes him forget the numbers of friends are saved on his phone,
makes him curl easily,
comfortably,
into the groove of a sat-through sofa,
a slept-through mattress,
a glass of skimmed milk --
what a fucking star.
"Got you Fruit Loops."
The explosion of happy,
mid-afternoon going into evening,
sprays over the kitchen counter.
Toes curled around cereal he finds the number in his phone,
texts her again as he pours some milk into a bowl;
Wriggling his tongue through the loops makes him think of her
but everything does these days,
comfortable groove and daytime television,
winter wonderland,
non-existent damp spots as a metaphor for life in general.
The sofa has a dip in the middle that he inevitably,
always,
slides into:
he wishes it was a metaphor for her pussy
or his career,
but he has to work too much at both to care.