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I did a silly thing by accident

I let myself get talking into another, bigger, live poetry event. This may have been a mistake...





Performance

Stuttering syllables on a stage, far

smaller than our sitting room, I

falter, and

freeze.

This is too new.

These quick wits are the lively ones, bright and

defiant, thriving

on misplaced rhythms, mismatched

lines and chasing up the perfect rhyme

to not quite end on.

Alone

I am the ingénue, unused

to the sharp-hard spit of grit in teeth, culled

painfully, straining, from the

unreal streets, and set

in syncopated steel. I

lust for fringe-girls, pretty little slips

of nothing, liminal

kisses, that mist

into night.

These

are my dreams, dewy and

burned away

by the cold bold brilliance

of day. I have no

guttural ruts

to run my tongue through

catching a cadence on knife-sharp

hips and dull skin, bruised

by my gaze.

And if you have never

                              lost yourself

                                                entirely

                                                            in love, well

what more is there to say?  



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waiting in a photobooth, libs
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