A dense, turgid, close evening. Thick with metaphor and pent up long expected electricity punching the air.
As the downpour washes away memory, leaving nothing but doubt that this summer ever existed.
And one bruised, over ripe, peach in the bowl.
Sunday, August 16, 2020
The end of it
Supermodel
I've met many super models in my time. Each and every one was super I am sure.
Save one.
Who didn't want to do the coke thing in the Cow
but sat outside
wooly hatted
talking about trying to write
one autumn evening.
It was a long time ago but
I can remember every stitch in her green hat
and her friendliness
The only time I had something in common
with a supermodel
a supermodel who was happy
to talk about
not being a supermodel
happy to talk about doubt.
Tuesday, August 4, 2020
Yellow lines
Waiting
in stolen cars engine running
on yellow lines
gas syphoned from ambulances
attending the car crash of her life
sleepless
on cocaine and amphetamines
white lines
stolen from dealers and pharmacies
while she trawled medical websites
for conditions
to embelish her needs
and lies
and litter her love songs
sung
from the beds of the brutal men she craved
to me waiting
in stolen cars engine running
on yellow lines
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