a hidden snap echoes from my neck joint

it’s like a midori jug, one collector-chic bar

& an early 2000 arrangement of feet on path.

blackguard irish pub sits reading byron, gauging the weather,

issuing schooners to a frigid table, & what else, as if all

luck were presaged by mobile updates bathroomwise?

then the stories of childminding told to a trampoline:

the first – six year old checkers; tazos; the killing

tone wavering from your expartner (sarah: ‘put more

violence into your poetry!’) the second: fretting about

the sleepwalking boy without cause; delirious in a heat

of afterthat. & now, as if characterised by

eyes newborn from a marathon sleep,

i’m the slowteardrop, this.

the stolen carstereo forces silence (aggresive)

while sluicing the gobbagombalin fog, & this

perusing your mind: construct a view as if leaning

from a mountain lookout. hurl something.

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