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Everything is the end of the world but really there’s only so much sadness I can line this poem with. In the end, picture me as I picture myself, standing in a river shivering and stupid, or in a casket filled with the gleaming baubles of big pharma, and maybe it leaks and everyone within a hundred kilometres experiences so much reuptake or picture me the best I looked last time I saw you.
You yourself are never an ending, / never collapse like the pinsetters’ set-up / or vanish like the smudged pencil Read More You’d see them hauling speakers at a gig, / drinking Cokes and fondly reminiscing / about that night (the ketamine! The wig!) Read More I’ve had my green leaves and my bloom.
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