One Hundred and Eighty-One.


Izzy circle


6 inches of pure masculine glory
bursting from this face
like a burnt steel wool scourer
that just learnt how to scowl
limbs moving like pistons to pour drinks
little shards of ice
smashing onto the bar for fumbling mouths
arms that say ‘I know pain, and I can hack it’
amorphous swirls of ink stretched taut
over them guns, them guns
all these pieces held together
by a ‘Detroit Techno Militia’ tee
a futuristic drink-dispensing machine
but everyone knows you cry when you come –
it devours you.


Sarah circle


The year folds in half round this evening
as I sit, quilted in carpet and cast-off old clothes
mouthing aphorisms in the middle of my brain
like ‘We’re all going to die, might as well take a look
at this funny old world before you have to fall off’
and ‘If you don’t go off and have an adventure
you’ll die the most boring person in the world’
It’s just that
I’ve got a new bed
and I haven’t yet found
the perfect way to curl up in it



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