Thursday, 3 November 2011


My heart lies empty like my bed. 
Somewhere down there my electric blanket burns.
A vague perfume haunts the sheets, Turkish Delight?
On bricks she's fractured in the middle.
I go to her when I tire of the world - 
and try to remember that I am a wave.
Everything will pass and move on - 
the transmigration of energy I think they call it.
I like the smell of the sweat because it's mine -
 I breath it deep into my wheezing chest.
Money makes me leave her, but should it be passion? 
I bring clean sheets to my bed like a gift to a lover.
I a place that has no bottom. 

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