Dreams are really starting to piss me off. It isn’t fair for my subconscious to vomit all sorts of memories behind my eyes, its vicious little attempts to revert me into somebody I stopped being only serve to make it harder to get out of bed, to get up and face the grey skies and pissing rain and open-plan. A quick, sad one today.
Emptying pockets on ring-marked tables
Produced a saddening pile
Of ticket stubs from seventy km
North of the Murder Mile.
Of folded Polaroid squares
Holding heavy, suspended fragrance
Of thighs in hotel rooms abroad
And slick, forbidden cadence.
The passport’s seen far better days
Dieu Et Mon Droit worn thin.
Sandblasted, deadened in Rajasthan,
Waxed smooth, strapped firmly in.
Emptying pockets with tobacco-stained hands,
Like waking from teasing memory.
Not asked for this arousal,
And never you, instead of me.
