QuenchA Poem by John Alexander McFadyenQuench The passing of short days takes its toll as I stand by my Thursday fridge. Not a weekend as defined by the end of the working week, the time sandwiched between the Friday evening feel of freedom and the bloody Monday blues. Not a weekend, a f*****g Thursday! The day before Friday so the last grains of work are yet to be squeezed from these bones. And my Thursday fridge is a September Thursday fridge as I watch the last dregs of sun bleed from the earth and drift towards the grey and leaden skies of another winter. And as I stare mournfully into the jaws of that white monster those tempting tin cans mock at me. Their crafted smooth skins ablaze with the colours and motifs that scream drink my amber Belgian blood. Slake your thirst with my chilled hoppy liquid gold. And there it is; my vow wrenches at my Catholic soul “I’m not going to drink during the week” stupid thing to say for the sake of losing seven point nine kilogram’s I decide; so I welcome the thwack as I pluck the ring-pull clear. 28/09/13 © 2013 John Alexander McFadyenAuthor's NoteReviews
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Added on October 2, 2013Last Updated on October 2, 2013 AuthorJohn Alexander McFadyenBrixworth, England, United KingdomAboutWell, have a long and complicated story and started it as an autobiography on Bebo but got writer's block/memory fogging. People liked it though and kept asking for the next chapter! fools.. more.. |

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