Cleopatra and an amplifier,
Manufactured in China;
An opulence of blues and pinks;
A cigar-box full of forgotten thinks.
And Kierkegaard’s Works of Love.
Incense and daggers, downloaded distractions;
A mush of green;
Tobacco and vanilla. Broken springs.
Lovers in factions.
Life-left counted off in fractions.
Tip me off guard,
If I don’t grip your shoulder
I might fall on my arse.
I say piss on my poise
And fuck the poison,
Like spiders –
Spasmodic, sporadic, lethal liaisons.
Like a faux-leather glove, dragged on a wire across the carpet –
Like one of those, y’know, that metaphorical malarkey –
I might be a shadow, or a ghost,
Or a migraine;
Or another episode.
A glitch in the code.
I check my phone
To see if I exist.
I couldn’t resist.