Bats fly low in Brixton sunset; we’ve talked about truth now
my mind recites it’s own quotations creates it’s own past:
you linger like green powdered mould in the recesses of my brain
saturating blood vessels scuttling into drab corners,
a dried corpse who chooses to crawl nightly beneath my sheets
leaving me indigo and remembering how, how it used to be.

I spend the day in recovery, shock edging my curled lips
waiting for the next adrenaline fix.

Doves strut Dulwich gardens, patrolling sun hats and Pimms gentility,
eyeing joggers red legged on prim park grass,
behind the blinds lies explode like party sparklers,
the menage a trois becomes six or seven and all is exhaustion
in the endless sputnik search for “the one “.
We are discarded condoms on a battlefield of adulation,
veterans in an air brushed drama where no one is in control.

We spend the day in recovery, shock spilling through the credit cards
lodging in Porsche seats, as the children turn their eyes away.

Parrots hurl insults into a taut tropical night,
and beneath the air- conditioning tourists ply tight skin with balm
as the rain forest tumbles under another colonial judder.
The streets of Phuket double as Marbella, clubbers club:
all is inordinately anaesthetised into a concrete corporate conglomerate.

There is no way to recovery, shock sidling from the side walks,
sweating between the young girls thighs, falling from the lines of ever open palms:

Somewhere in the universe the small particle which might be you,might remember,
take me from my nightly sojourns unseal this equation with a smile,

in passing.

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