markbousfield

I throw out

six crumbles of cheese,
a cornice of stale baguette and
noodles thinly veiled in a Kung Po sauce
and I contemplate another night spent on the floor of the front room.

Burnsandbruises on my ribsandhips.

'heavy spooning',

fizzing pages of Ulysses and Big Sur,
alternating chapters,
desolations and dharmas,
quite the literary theologian
consorting with my two favourite Jacks and James.

Lindy-hops and hulas marred
with mirror marks on the strutted streetways.
I smoke 4,

unusual for me at 4am

Invigorated and bleating ignorant crap,
ridden loathing and all fizzy from Jacks and James
into antsy ballsy weariness,
sitting in groups on the kitchen floor
no chairs
just the old paisley cushions from the back room.

Another quart of Jack and Rose,
stuck on the throw-around underground
with the Caledonian Road sweats.

We lie with the flick of discarded spermdrizzle
slipped onto the back of her black underwear while sleeping,
caught by her mother napping in the spare room
at 1 o'clock in the afternoon

I haven't called yet.
Neither has she.