Saturday, 6 August 2016

1 New Poem


I don’t take to sugars
the same way some others
have, with washing of mouths
in communion favour;

they sting instead of brackish
water, of spoiled box wine,
cheap stuff to chase away
forged signatures.

Itch of cotton takes over,
ramblings of bottle breath
wet and sunny against
a playing morning’s curtain call,

but it doesn’t look the same,
all starfire-crimson, as
when I felt a collapsing
of old spectrums to one point,

a choking throw-up to still
dawns as always they were:
the pill bottles’ clutter,
empty with chicken-scratch labels.

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