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saturday afternoon poem

Portadown cum
round again
sex drop and
damp dreams
in council housing
silent chatter
borderline skit zo
figures melting on lightbulbs

I’m painting a portrait with the pelvis as a disappearing point and masturbation is nothing left to lose.

I was pretend smoking with twig and some girl named Sweetie and then my gills turned to lungs underneath the kitchen sink.

Blow yr mind with the hemogoblin of a healthy heartbeat.

I am a flexible rubber stuck in yr ear.

Slip and stumble and tead the treason line, the reason
for crush and crumble is to keep the peeping
weightless, scenes are vector
of missed lips, engulfed
and faithless in North London
I’m bare, immigrant rapsody
on the nightspin.

I’m not over anything; I’m still here.

The chromo sins
don’t match, one father lives in Belfast and the other
was a British soldier.

I used to be Mormon
now I’m a bloodbin
an orange cake
wrapped and mummified

Comments

William Keckler said…
I like it.

Petronian spread of sound.

The words cleave like oranges into their lunule vocables.
postpran said…
thanks William . . . yeah oranges on the tree go creep creep creep

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