Wednesday, 25 September 2013

Rucked

The last time we walked this street the gutters were rampant with
flung shoes, aglitter with smashed glass, thick with the mucus of lungs.

You turned into an alleyway and turned over a card; you prayed pokerfaced
for no Jacks to break or besmirch us, no sharp objects, no guns.

But it was good—our hearts were beneath our tongues and they tasted
like engine soot, your skirt was rucked, all the needles and nitrous

could not puncture our skin. This city was a spider’s web of bluebottles
half-decayed but somehow still abuzz; our feet were broken motherboards,

sending blue and violent sparks with our shoes. We were not broken.
This time the street is clean, you push a stroller by the boutique, I cannot

recognise the clack of your shoes. It is foolish to miss the city’s gangrene
but still. I peek down alleyways, hoping for a glimpse of the goods.


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