Wednesday, 28 April 2010


My head is crinkled, is a
sopped sponge that oozes
dishwasher liquid, grey and
sudsy. Don't pull the
curtains, stay clear of
curiosities, drink a coffee
which is fearless and black.

You are not cobbled together
for the mornings. You taste fetid
and old, and your corners are turning
rancid. Remain horizontal
for the time being. Wait for evening,
and start again.

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