Monday, 1 April 2013


She snatched it up before it touched the ground,
Wine lights my veins. Her eyes, tears tracked slime.
She knows which side her bread is buttered on.
I whispered.

Red sicklysweet this morning. Sour. I steady myself.
Shimmering in the sun, cognac brown, sometimes reddish-rum.
Extract, a slice of processed prey. Black cat tail-tip white
Trails away.

Minutes worth of ash remain, bending with an orange
Glow. Serpentine blue smoke aromatic - flow.
Thin - sterilized milk drains my coffee
Of colour.

I return to bed and read.
No intention to sleep.

1 comment:

  1. You capture those inane moments of sheer desperation, those dirty, messy moments of isolation, early in the morning...late at night...when no-one is looking, with a clinical eye and a satiric twist. Never stop writing....