By | 1 February 2019


I am kissing him against a glass
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Or something less
Controversial. A man

A king perhaps, a rock/stone thrown
He is missing my face

Misses the face in scratched glass
Though my ankle bleeds

His ankle showing, the glass woman
Smiles, my teeth intact

Back to his place

A hot London night (yeah right)
This suburb is so hidden and grey, it seems

On these cobbled streets, our fingers
Remain in light and I know

The back of my shoulder
Like the back of my hand


Sub stratum
Elastic veins of gold
Gloss, glare, gleam, glitter
Old chip packets
Pink and blue
Toys, bits of bus stop
Rotten teeth
Spat in all those banned bags and Barbie™s
Melting hand
A thousand bent machines
A new kind of
A new kind of
Addiction paraphernalia, needles
Waxed cups and condoms
Things they called art
A face in acrylic
Nails with tilted hearts
Formaldehyde, fake tits
Stop signals
Sequins and roads

There are a thousand (million) ways
Of composing
A globe

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