Corkscrew
a decapitant
on a metal bench
outside the converted church
where could I go
then for my conversions
where could I rest
8:07 Saturday Morning
tesco express
Piccadilly red wings
dripping from my fingers
a crumpled suit stretched
hung by the neck
my guillotine body
Cotton Books
body-bed-body torturous
he read for hours
until the night feeling & bedsheets
undisturbed
more than a form
& the long-dead
Sul Serio
I had a friend
who used to inject
ink straight
into his arteries
black tracks
running up his arms;
I Would Be Killed That All The Muses Are Dead, But They Are Becoming Outmoded Anyway & The Bullish Sexism Of The Whole Thing Makes Me Treat Poetry With Disgust – Better To Write In The Shadows Of Poetics, Than Turn My Hand To Poetry Again
z—-
with codeine to see her
ripped flesh & ripped bodice
both to trace the scars so
similar to mine & tell me
please