and Ronnie O’Sullivan walking out on Stephen Hendry.
Red black rocket
I’ve had enough of this game.
And this waistcoat.
I’d like to play in a space suit.
Imagine that,
shooting balls like they were planets
bouncing against the sides of the universe.
At Narcotics Anonymous we discuss responding to anger and frustration,
by isolating pain until you can say,
“This is where it hurts,
in my left side,
it is a dull pain,
not a sharp pain.”
But really, we know we’ve no more hope of finding the answer
than those robot probes that lose their footing
and spin their tails on Mars.
What people don’t understand
is that winning doesn’t help
and that being ambidextrous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
That time I had to prove to a line of offended officials
that I’m as good with my left hand
as I am with my right
was humiliating for everyone.
Most days my brain just prints in red and black.
But if I’m lucky, I might dream about shots of buttery drinks
that I lick off my lips
until all the women in the front row want to kiss me.
When I apologise,
which I do a lot,
I always mean it.
And when I put a towel over my head
it’s to go to the damp, blue, end of the line
where I can’t hear myself think.
My chair on Pluto.
I’ve really had it with this waistcoat.
For some time now, I’ve wanted to jump out of a rocket.
A cue ball dropping through the green baize galaxy.
