Friday, 25 February 2011

Whores and Oars

After a Sunday service,

I, a man of no anchor and leftovers

Stood out on the bridge, looking at tide

And ships.

You, with a name that hears like a summer month,

Beer in hand, nicotined lips, dared me down

By another wet bar I got you first

And crushed shards of glass.

From the deck, you rang me so we could meet

The week I wasn’t whored up in paid hours.

I gave you a lemon pig and you kneecapped him

And snapped an ankle so his unwaxed belly

Hit the floor. The clove eyes got yanked and

Flicked at new misery.

Almost a full day had vanished

When my letter reached your door

And you, maybe ‘cause of fear, pouted

And put your foot against the letterbox

And slept there

Curled and blocking the sea.

Four days after. A decision was giving me

The plank. I walked out,

Got to the edge, saw the sharks

With blank stares and the scraps from another

And your phone was ring ring


I jumped.

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