Friday, 15 May 2015

13. Sorry

I say sorry, I meant
to answer every mail with
pink diamonds and rum floats

I meant to shackle sunflowers
to chopsticks and repot the hammock
(my dragonflies are battery-dead)

This week is sunk helicopters
and kites with weak thighs trying
to leap off the runway themselves

These ribbons are knotted, I apologise
to cunt and spunk unswallowed
the pansies gone to rot, but

I want to be distracted by creamy birdsong
and horizontal mistakes—don’t we all
go loopy and yes-full in the spring?

Next week I reject you all in favour
of cheese toastie triptychs
of a revolution built out of gin.

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