father, son and white lightning a summer evening, time spent together in the front garden, as the sun slips down the back of the settee. together you rifle through a bin bag.
how the sun brings the mad out the heat hits like a tyre iron to the back of my neck. i sag early. people who have not washed their hair before, talk to their hands. around me,
clueless she looked at me and said: "I want you to do rude things to me". so i let the door go in her face, cut her up in traffic, criticised her food with a slow, slow fork,
with the lights out avocado i love avocado enough, to get married to it. here comes the bride, short, brown and wide, and beneath that shy, goosebump skin, a creamy, green yellow