your name there

Today though, the only things that stir
or fail to stir are teaspoons, Mugsy Bogues.
These phony platitudes and delicate plenaries.

If you’re lucky, later on, I’ll let you read my note
book. We had such hymen hopes, my eyes misty,
you put your name at the top, just below the collarbone.

I hope you don’t mind, I invited the neighbours
for dinner yesterday but had to latch the pots.
Mister Chef, that’s just pigeon for boss. Meanwhile
tons of people send in their submission. I was late
in the subbing, so I posted yesterday’s roast,
which was half-nibbled anyway. Your almond
dies but your shoelace tips are collectable.

But there are rules to conditioner, aren’t there?
I always plan an extraordinary face-washing.
Do you remember when we used penicillin
for everything? I would administer drops
to the underside of my eyelids with pipettes.
While dudes and their counterparts drew
pistols from their Hipsters. That was the year
Akhmatova one, two and a half,
and threw everything at it.

We supped on minute galaxies and minute steaks.
Best plans scuppered, laid to rest, i could
be a piece of punctuation, really. Hopes dashed,
we circumlocute the city, but can find nothing.

Of course it was easy then.

We had so much mouldy bread lying around:
why not enter into discussions? Through the window
I watched Dean fell a tree. We used planes to take shavings,
pared them up, then matched them again, and using
threads of saliva, we sewed sheets of it. They were
just big enough to lay over a computer screen
and we traced the letters with poscas.

Impressed by this, I cut all the spines from my books
and to counter their now-fluid legs, like
English spinach, I fixed miniature vices on each corner.

We were workers back then, and
used to pick flakes of dried paint
from our fingertips of an afternoon.
If you were careful, you could thread
them onto a loom, large enough
to build whole carpets to be filed away
in stupid archives – mute or mutated.

We are embarrassed by our pink birthmarks,
but my chest is my placard. I drew all the bits
on with semipermanent marker.

Do you remember the time I’m talking about though?
I was eating a packet of pepitas and dropped
the whole damned thing on the ground.

Oh no indeed.

This entry was posted in bureaucracy, competitions, expulsion, poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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