confit

1 February 2017

although we might have chewed on the same
page we never lived on the same continent
my new revised atlas confirms that i am
not of the same stock cube as you i filched
those cubes to add flavour to my misdemeanours;
you coveted my watermelon thongs although they
were the wrong accessories for your cassock your
whiskey profile made me lie so i could extract
myself more rapidly i never left the hose
on or stole the prunes i just needed something
to declare in that claustrophobic broth your wry
desire left nothing to the imagination but a throb
of narcolepsy how many strings of beads went
rusty while the candles gutted themselves you had
too much cheek to turn things around how many stuffed
holes in their shoes with the pages of your little black rule book
in the years of the credit squeeze i spied you hurling a decomposed
fish down the aisle like a scarecrowed olympian your motorcycle
slithering into the delta’s bullrushes its slick conspiracy

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