I want to be a stone. Cold
and sober.
Stoic
between his rock and
her
hard place.
There is no piety
at parties. Words
winding out of the dark; between
drumbeats,
restless bodies
and warm cider spilt on skirts again.
I take an inch off my privacy
every time
I clean. Forty degrees
is hotter than it used to be.
I want to be a stone. Cold
and sober.
Cracking off
freeze-thaw mood swings: hot
and cold diet of subtraction
softening edges.
Sun-kissed
by eventide. I
wake up sticking
to stories of sea-labotomies.
June 2009.
Monday, 22 June 2009
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