@MattAbbottPoet

@MattAbbottPoet
Image © Copyright Amy Charles Media 2014

30 Aug 2011

Plessey Road



There’s a smudged stain of your make-up
And a faint view of the Princes Dock
A hair-clip on the table
That points towards the impatient clock
And you crept as they served breakfast
Left me blissfully unaware
The night we had was reckless
And I slept without a care

And as you head down Plessey Road
I struggle to come to terms

But those thirteen hours beside you, girl
Really served to reaffirm
And I choke on pleasant small-talk
In this meaningless façade
Yes sir, no sir, when sir, why;
Keep hiding behind your guard


When you come to speak
As rare as it's revealing
Few things could beat
That old familiar feeling
And I'd write for a week
And never once could capture
When you come to speak
The way that you enrapture


The way you drape across the chair
As the street-lights spring to lifeNo Mademoiselle from ArmentièresNo mere mortal's wife
You're like the finest statueWith a purple plastic heart

Translucent your antennae
And destined from the start


And as you lay there on the bed
Unbuttoning my jeans
I have to keep you in my life
By each and every means
And one day, you'll find Plessey Road
And in the plant pot by the plaque
You'll tuck away your key, kiss your mother on the cheek
And never once go back


When you come to speak
As rare as it's revealing
Few things could beat
That old familiar feeling
And I'd write for a week
And never once could capture
When you come to speak
The way that you enrapture