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

Don’t Equate Me

The same Grammarly ad five times 25 minutes The same grammarly ad ten times an hour 25 miles of grammarly source code can’t tell me that inconsistent capitals, no full stops random line breaks, can’t tell me How to improve lazy and bleeding noise – Is a cover up: 6

Anohter [sic]

There’s not much better on a Sunday Five layers of salt smell wafting Midday activities pleasurably concluded And a 2ltr cider resting on the table there Pristine before the implosion, pristine And then the week comes with the best Dirt, and the days roll on – cheap fabrics Cut under

Smooth Cider Like Syrup, in Tankard

Because it brings me dreams of green Those fillings between hop fields and farm lads Toiling with their flagons over shoulder and a mean Wage, hairy youth which sup on apples The trees in the wind with that summer pollen Breathing through worms and fruits of the morning Spurned through

I’m Not

Butcher boy you cut it to an act Some divine spark a mere and disgusting event In your fearful eyes and me some stunted stag, The gore of your knife-wielding hunter Splat on my little horns, mocking us both

Computer work

Computers do strange things to your art You can’t rip a file I mean you can rip it off a cd apparently But you can’t tear it in half – you have to give it somebody Once something’s written down you can’t hide from the reality You either accept it

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