Sunday, April 27

26th April

favourite & the aroma
of night
is all it gives me from
betwixt black index
finger fumb—

can suit to you,
go hang this day
(I want it don’t)
but lay out my morning
clothes because cannot we be-
come something of
houseplants growing—&
startle the winds of
this city o’er this city
burning, a dozen bridges
on fire, is, o, is spectacular!

where is my mum?

where is the hallo to me
in particular?

where is the cooling left
avocado my fridge?
softening, ripe once,
now to die light green
‘neath its dark green skin

where is my moon?

shall I write to wine’s
obituary; the weak &
runny sediment?—I fought
you, Today, & I tried to
win like bravery in iron—
if my days are so
helpless, forget me then—
shall I not worry
that precious
is my four-letter
word is four letters;

the lovers around me
make sounds in the deep,
acute the angler holds
open its mouth &
none of the
sentences mean owt
of course except

runny chocolate &
her
ankles on my knees—

so ends this special
catastrophe
as one more apostrophe
in the story of my breathing,
awake am I much longer
not, for to fight the night,
upon whose aroma
I so sleepily drift, is
to pretend
I put not one of these
words meaningless down.

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