Past It
From an indulgent nephew, we’ve acquired the small
lump of resin that is to transform colours, music. Sex.
It looks like brown coal, the kind that makes half Europe
cough up its lungs. We’re like our parents with chopsticks,
flummoxed, annoyed at the suburbanites it makes of us.
Shall we grate it into sandwiches? We’re cannier,
spear bits on the point of an uncurled paper clip,
light it, drop it in ajar and hover, sucking in.
We suck like they do in teenage cult movies;
we suck like forties sophisticates, drawing deep.
Minutes pass. We don’t talk, in case we miss something.
Covertly, we watch each other for signs of the sublime,
gaze at roses. Nothing. Maybe it’s past its abuse-by date.
Maybe it’s the Tinkerbell effect - do we really believe?
You put the kettle on. I pass the chocs.
Page(s) 21
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- Lamport Court
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- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Poetry London (1951)
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
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- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
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- Ugly Tree, The
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- Yellow Crane, The