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
beneath my beard
my skin is raw
torn by silent songs
I never knew I had to sing

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


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