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Silence Exile and Crumpets
 
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Tuesday, July 12th, 2016

Time Event
12:35a
iT'S ALL PRETTY APOCALYPTIC ISN'T IT?
DOOMDAY

Summers of vintage sweat damp down pale skin
picnic ham artichoke salt on the tongue
licks kisses hand. Even the old are young
In memory. Their sepia photo grin

code for the last good fuck before things fell
tunetinny halfremembered whatsitsname
fourteen or sixteen it will be the same
friends die one day and then you die as well

in mud and gangrene blotches on your face
no food in gut you emptied all your shit
scraped it with rat bits in an open pit
you never get to walk from this last place

gold set your death escape was not a chance
smile fear and love. And then you turn and dance.
1:05a
Second poem of the night
LAST THINGS

Braid blend her kiss and someone else's breast
you don't remember you were drunk that year
hair snagged on stud your finger twists that ear
another night. The small hairs on his chest
soft silk folds lemon sweat of his kind dick
the scratch of that rich bastard's well-ironed sheet
quick ache contraction that time that you meet
her you were with for years. The smell of sick
you stroked out poison finger in her throat.
Salt char and blood and mustard tanging steak
with fuck under the table that same night
she scratched blood jagged neck during that fight
that one last time was really a mistake.
I love these words. I do. I hope to try
for shrieks and moans remembered as I die.
1:25a
Third poem
FOR A STATESWOMAN

The perfect manner of the crocodile
faceted glinting eye that never blinks.
Somewhere behind the stare there's something thinks
old venom malice. Not so much a smile
though teeth are there and blooded. Maybe smirk
self-pleased and praised. And hungers not for blood
but bone crunch and she waddles in the mud
unresting. Values gold and pain and work
and armour wrapped around. In grids and swirls
hard leathered nodules nothing can bites to bleed
A tail that she can bludgeon smash at need.
And round the neck a perfect set of pearlS,
the queen of death she squelches through this bog
we made her queen believing her a log.

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