Month: April 2020

Portraits of 19th Century politicians conceal half-remembered

Whispers from your lovesick lips and in the gallery standing I put my hands down to feel the blue carpet in your room And pulling at it rough the crunching sound of bunched fabric Under nails and your eyes wandering to me We both seem far too sober for this

It was like one of these Netflix shows

My camera face panning up thru the crowd At your shoulder you looking back into the lens The dusk light the pause that flows into This off license where we buy pizza and sweet Chilli sauce talking about postcards and flows Through the phantom crowds to the grey door That’s

U have to read to write good

So sometimes I like to read And go into their dreams I feel the grass like the wind In Dylan Thomas and everything Smells of semen he’s always Talking about salt and ears Of corn and things I hear his Deep voice imagine Welsh Baritone or just booming or Hungry


Maybe you’re gone But my heart is still stuck to your stiletto Like gum With you every night out Looking up your dress Watching if you weep with pleasure Knowing what it is for you to undress On a foreign floor Listening to the bed springs those nights Concealed under

Today I was writing

And on the wall I wrote with the smudging ink on the smooth white paint ‘every day I write’ Signed and dated and the summer crawling Through the window I burned this is the first Time I’ve worked in two weeks, let me fucking Work and she sassed me out

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