8:07 Saturday Morning

by Poetry

tesco express
Piccadilly red wings
dripping from my fingers
a crumpled suit stretched
hung by the neck
my guillotine body
shaking & nervous caught
in some long-legged storm;
a self-service machine drags me
from the eye
what dreams that night
all wine & worse
my shame comes spitting
with the receipt
& small ribbons
squat in my pockets
as spoon-holes pattern
brachioradialis
beneath my beard
my skin is raw
torn by silent songs
I never knew I had to sing

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poetry
poetry

Independence

gentle shores teasing infinity are
beautiful but they are not you
I think some part of you
resents that the idea
that I can unearth beauty
independently

A Cheap Black Rosary

when I wasn’t looking for a teacher
she arrived
with her casual blasphemies
wearing the crucifix between her breasts –
cheap, plywood, & with her sweat
the black dye trickled

Swearing in Italian

I spend my days wrestling with angels,
gripping and grappling…

A Little Ink

all the wit in the world
incomparable to handfuls of hot
dripping meat; that’s what I wanted;
everything I read
everything I wrote
to be dripping wet