I restored your mother's faith in men whilst boring you to death,   left nothing more than the circle of stubble rash around your chest.   My life was saved by a packet of    nineteen cigarettes carried in my left breast pocket, for a closest friend.   A sleeping bag on the floor twists hips like buffalo horns,   they said "that boy is too lazy" you were clearly forewarned.   A jealous ex silenced the room, he said that you were a whore;   "do you kiss your mummy's lips with that mouth?".      She imagined everything I said in falsetto;   the only way to justify my childish despair.   I spent my last six fifty in a public phone box,   (graffited genitalia from the ceiling to the floor)   played reckless, rapid like a fruit machine.   I see gargoyles in the floral of the duvet cover,   you see melodrama move from one sentence to the other.   Many years practice of speaking in hushed tones.