and we meet in a doorway at a party
and we do flirting like we mean it cuz we do
and u super drugg feel me
and we are super drugg photoready in basic photoreal
in my house in your alley in the tunnel under the bedroom with the zoo
where fucking is the only viable activity
where you have to think fast with both your other hands
the hands of a suicidal fucker
theatrical in corners
smell of vomit in the hallway
our joke bodies
back n forth with the poxy poetry
and we raise our own ghosts
in our own ghost house
semi-detached annexe in a lay-by
cold shoulder cottage in the cotswolds
pre-fab cow shed in the highlands
this illness in me when it could be you
decide then construct a scenario
stuff words in it.
i’m the tongue on roses.
it’s like what it is. it’s an arsehole.
tongue me face down from incisor to molar
accent. swallow. you say: stuff.
out your throat, 10 men.
you a modernist housing scheme. in your lift it stinks of piss.
hand to mouth and up. get out at 21st Century.
i smoke a ciggy, piss a puddle, turns into golden lake.
yeah, cuz i is a garden city and you is a sink estate.
outside on your balcony with
them shitty pigeons you keep, i lean over the edge, lift my arms.
i’m the figurehead of fucking. see the slow burning of south london.
i’m begging now. your mouth.
all the fingers. spread on stone.
i’m a room with the lights out now.
you be the shut front door.
on Zoomoozophone Review issue 1