Friday, 4 March 2016


sick as a bat hung
     from last summer’s trapeze

    & wearing a tiara in bed
it’s better like this   

    horny little weirdo
nicking hours from tomorrow’s naptime

lucid giggled twit

    the bed’s a boat so
I hoist wet flesh to the crows nest

lasso the expectorant seagull
    cough up a lump

waiting it out is like
    promising summer tomatoes

    in March
(the fruit is cold and plastic)

so I close my eyes tighter
    and pray for the glut

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