Sunday, January 18

Drunken Cuckoo

in she giddy comes
from her night in
the wretched shoreditch

& she is beating up the stairs
my to writing desk if only
to kiss me ‘hello’
cold night;
She is at a bag of crisps
but cold enough to rush her
finger bone slender thru my hair

I watch her undress ‘what you
doin’( over the moon, her flesh)
‘just enjoyin the show’
stargazing the freckles on
her drunken body—

semicircle above the duvet
‘good-night’ & out quickly
fast to slumber cuckoo.

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