Ugly

There's so much more, there's so much more, there's really so much more.

Wild west wind blowing down the stony ear of the chimney and no-one can relax

and no-one can spell no-one, and the fire is burning hot hot hot

(the Stovax stove pipe thermometer said so). So much more.

Chocolate advent calendar and a newly converted attic room

and my friend is home from seeing her father out of this world,

her cat is tracking her closely to ensure she doesn't leave again.

When can I retire, oh maybe never maybe not ever, maybe just die.

A little power monitor tells me how much electricity we are swallowing

up, and my oh my how the year flies to its end, how it dies how it leaves.

A boy I knew, not now a boy, a man in his fifties is dead dead dead

and what I remember about him is he was my beautiful friend's boyfriend,

he was a mechanic, he had eyes like the sea and waves in his hair,

and he drove a Citroen Diane, yellow, known as the flying banana

goodbye S, rest in peace. I dreamed you were murdered, I hope not so.

Death pressing its ugly face up at the window this month, last month

and Christmas coming.