Wednesday, 6 January 2010


The only thing
I’ve left to drink
Is the stuff inside my nose,
It’s early bird
And there are no more words,
And a pile of dirty clothes.

The slow cooker’s full
Of vegetables
That dried out two days before,
And it’s far too late
To commence debate
With the iron and its board.

The latest reason
Has bled in season
Over every piece of carpet,
And now after noon
The sun stirs fumes
I rather would forget.

The last begotten
Of Spring’s new cotton
Still creases up my brow,
And so this evening
Long after leaving
I’ll commend your name unknown.

The final comfort
I cannot get
Is the full stop from my lips,
But the art of time
Won’t show incline
To arrest my mouth of gifts.

And the very last thing
I’ve left to link
With what I’ve come to be,
Is a dirty noose,
That is hanging loose,
Down in the laundry.

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