Birthdays are when you start before noon.
15 years apart.
They’re for throwing wet socks
Out the window, not flossing,
Petit dejuner at the meat market.
Birthdays have thin candles on
Cream and chocolate cake,
They’re for restaurants,
Greeting cards and footsie.
Birthdays turn you into a bluebottle,
You wait for three kings and get
Striped shirts and aftershave.
You chain smoke
And squeeze the plump cheeks
Of a milkmaid
Leave dishes in your room,
Punch a loaf of bread,
Dial long distance,
Armagnac 1888.
Birthdays aren’t about the day
You were born.
They’re an excuse to walk through
Le Jardin de Luxembourg,
Fornicate with workmates,
Set false targets.
For Kubrick, Jagger and Shaw.
Birthday’s let you down:
Mirror breaths,
Ladies on wheels,
Card’s lost in mail dumps,
Women with sagging breasts
Holding your hand.
Age eats you,
Sniffs your crotch
And barks.
It’s another one
Added to the others.
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