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Things As They Are

 

                                Dark matter – exhaust fumes belong,
                                         fogbound bluster from the Tyne
                                                                         a pending
                                                                         of slumberous gases.
I held Gloria Jones’ ‘Tainted Love’
               a reason to dance
      all colours evergreen.
                             We’d groped
our parting shot, I vacated the doorway.
Glad on cider,
feel-good sparkle of music
                                     the syrup of underage sex.
Lower –
                       flow to the hunchbacked churchyard
                       goosepimple
                                    at its soft-hued stones. Span
              blackened turf
to the centering town.
                               Downcurve an unwieldy slope,
moonshine in high saturation.
              Licensed premises,
the commotion of mingling.
               A booze-hardened face.
The guts flush.
First time’s hardest – smack.
Hands and knees
and spitting blood.
Fucking queer!
A bloody kicking.
God my jacket…

Truth? Truth hurts.

 

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