I am tired of listening to you wasting your precious breath

your thoughts are wasted
on her
they are reference flotsam to bob around her mind for weeks
until a pubside patter resurrects them
and those ideas can be flung out knowledgably
ideas pillaged from long
wine afternoons of psychic larceny

she will prostitute lines of poetic magnitude for a newspaper caption
to underline the grainy pout.
curate an art form of casting aside the backbeat
in favour of aimless lyrics
and of trading sentiments
for words

a smoker wasting the fiery dust
of the centre of the sun
and the cosmic cinders
of the sky’s electric gash

this is time which would be better spent reminiscing with people you have never met;
reading Chinese tea leaf foam patterns in the ale glasses of alcoholics
or collecting foreign health warnings
from the half-smoked packets
of Spanish cigarettes.