The Laundry Basket
They dance and the dust rises
She stepped out of the bath
There are places I will not go
Darkness lifted and fled the room
We began close and got closer
She stood up and switched on the
coffee machine
Why send me poems? Shit should be
buried
The trees walk and blossoms sing
A ship sails and prostitutes wash
They hold hands and stare in shop
windows
The Red Telephone
Crushed by a cart but lived three
weeks
The little Belgian went to the bar
for drinks
Sometimes I will sit in a corner
and wear dark glasses
Cliff Richard out front, Mother
Theresa out back
It took four men
We need to talk about your mother
A Clockwork Grapefruit
It begins at dawn: bombers
Crucifixion Week
The odds were creeping up
They were in the tanner seats, the
Gods
He knew, almost as son as the
others
Fat, spotty, always hungry, sweats.
The machines are laughing
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