Tuesday, 10 March 2015


If there is nothing left of these days
Let words – please - remain
Rather than the smell of fear
Like the lead-up towards sex
The upturned blades of the fan
On the overworked desk

I attempt to fill the emptiness of clear space
With a word count
No  meaning, for they try to tie focus
Or money or open
Some other section.

Here I write
And roll off without mention
Like the jilted lover
The holiday tension
Left just to fester.

Is it over
Is it better
So why do such questions
Almost touch each other

Better it’s over, lover

Than forever broken in expression.

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