missing: presumed poet
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By JupiterMoon
- 478 reads
missing: presumed poet
toothed toast edges remain,
cooled coffee
has assembled serene pools in the sink
each reflects a ceiling
it is though he may return
to this small, awkward orbit –
our jupiter
the door is unlocked
days of wet meat piled
in a baby pink cat bowl
no attempt
to make curtains
meet in the middle
his mobile phone
dies gradually on the sofa arm,
haste has made
an abandoned overhang
the rooms
are bunched tight with feelings,
layered like dirt
waiting for the hot mouth
of the sunday hoover
he hasn’t taken a coat
and his slippers are missing
he is out there…
flattening out words,
that may make the shapes
of hopeful and bold
clutching twilight
in keen fingers
desperate for stardust
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The hot mouth of the Sunday
The hot mouth of the Sunday hoover - l like this a lot. The best thing about writing poetry, you sort of vanish.
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