still i find her, on the sill, in the fading birthday flowers, in the thirsty vase. a stray hair in the bath, her scrawl on some scrap paper. a receipt, screwed in denim. pocket and breathe for a moment, forever, her sillage as I pass the chair she favoured. i hear her songs; of course, her … Continue reading her ghost.
one hair of her is adhered to the bathtub tonight & the way it is signed there is a bittersweet sight. i try to find meaning in its pale tangerine, tease pleasure from her signature divine. &, as i soak, i stroke with my finger, her porcelain leaving, into the shape of a heart.
in an oaked corner of wild field, unzipped, I spilled into a belfast sink at the foot of the fort on Old Rothbury hill, a less than generous piss without thinking - a skein of hinny spittle and skinny sheep disease, stagnant spring rain, latticed silver wings, windfall twigs and orange leaves and, beneath this scum … Continue reading a sort of masterpiece.
nickreeves 