21 March 2016

Watermelon lip jelly reclines on the rim; sheer dress like water traipsing along

my nerves. Silhouettes cloud my vision as I try to focus, amidst the

pulsating mist and warped reflections through a Perspex stem, on equally

earnest eyes.

Verse One reflects widespread revelry in letting her go

at the next kerbside collection; kinda funny that

although people come here to be unfettered, they’re always so


in their search for tighter shackles.



I spend the chorus creating cud cocktails in the toilet bowl; pine lime

bile and horseradish chunks in Gogh skyscape whorls —

second-degree internal burns, I can still hear your aphorisms about

the human-led destruction of the world.


Thistle collar now pansy purple;

you siphoned your savings so I wouldn’t have to stay at the station.

You take high roller bets on how long before the distracted driver rests his

elbow on the console, and gets the leg of the spider you hacked into quarters

stuck in his pores.


Beside you, a coach carriage full of men, daze-gazing through the

murky shit-faced windows,

The failures, you say. 

How unlucky, I say.

Let’s cross our fingers for them, we say.



Abrupt recall through creaking, sleep-addled eyes: Oh, how haphazardly

my confessions fell into your lap, and did sordid dance

moves. My irises, rotating as fast as my tongue, logging

the give : take ratio for later playback.

Outside, through cider-gold venetian blinds, small dogs

paw at concrete. So that’s why I should have

trimmed their nails — they’re always looking for

something that isn’t there.


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