17


There are echoes

Faint traces

I swear

I just saw the curve

Of her breast

In the smoke

Leaving my lips

Still kissing.

Skin is memory

Rumpled bedclothes

Her hair

Woven into my beard

Tapestry tangled

She tasted of apples

So in autumn

Every juicy bite

Becomes the apex

Of her thighs.

Phonographic memory

Her voice is

On my FM dial

Grooves cut vinyl

Every single fucking song

Her the needle

Playing my spine

Melody architecture

Spinning Escher staircases

Right round baby

Back to a girl

In my room

Wearing nothing but sunlight.

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3 Responses to “17”

  1. shinehead baxter Says:

    this one’s lyrical – serpentine

  2. beaver tooth Says:

    waved the maple leaf today in your honour
    here’s a tiny firework too … BANG

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