Wednesday, February 11

Blame Game

this moroseness & these tiresome works
on the broken dry skin my right index finger
that bleeds on paper quickly—
digital date in the corner of old photographs;
notably 23-08-96—
on silence over dead friendships—
we are sad enough so we buy a journal for our
mothers to write in while our fathers watch t.v.—
our mothers don’t drink as much as we do—
the fact haven’t I tasted my love’s cunt
in months, or the overhanging plastic, the sex
withered & dry so coming I yelp in pain, sob,
limp to the train station & give up—
no longer cared for—a carsick gramophone a-rings
over & over—‘we just have shit glands’—
not a poem but a list, a tiresome work that pieced
together, down on the white, is not worth a
salad anniversary but is strung out from one side
of the room to the other, to air, & realising
the time, I summon decency & cease.

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