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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Corkscrew

a decapitant
on a metal bench
outside the converted church
where could I go
then for my conversions
where could I rest

Madonna

The mirror haunts me and turns my words to air, my love to grey light that starves, burns, screams beneath red-hot fluorescence. Madonna; can I pretend to love and know these love poems in my rotten pancreas? Can I pretend that this sudden obsession has the merest...

A Red Dress

A red dress, and said “when you were a boy”; I choked on love; I was a boy and you were the night forest – lost, scared, alone in you, alone with the wind moans through bracken branches making a stranger’s bed with my name engraved in the headboard, with...

Pietà: A Poem

In numerous stolen night terrors, the blonde Venetian woman of the stars sits alone, a crowd of herself spread across a red and white dancefloor tablecloth. Bottles of vino make spirited advances and spear the air with alcohol intent and she dreams to breathe them in...