Monday, 14 July 2014

1 New Poem

That Part After
Strung out on concert confetti,
waiting on the primrose lock
for beck-and-call command,
we catch glances in the sodium light,
we clash gazes in form 782 whir
lit up in sangria shade for the season.

Some toothy minder's grin hit me,
some pained twinge of childrens' watercolour
crossed to meet the same in time,
winced and jangled in ragman's echo;

key and clock the very same,
confetti a chemical's trick.

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