We are in Oxfam - The book one - And she is stealing minutes Away from the tagine Which should be softening So that my friends Can add to the list of things They know about me: Great cook.
I can't help it - Monday has pissed in my tea All my karmic knots Are wriggling loose And this sense Of inevitable aging That just won't stop. A line graph With time on the y,
I know you live nearby- Sited in Snooper's Paradise Swinging in a black leather trench Clenching the reluctant fist Of your son. He doesn't care how dark you are Or the way You spat out
We grease in bed for hours- 11 episodes of Skins Punctuated by flicking crumbs Off my pigeon chest. At 12.12, We try out our worst insults: 'You are not even an echo
Windows can't stop your Generic volume, The message says. I knew it! So voluminous am I, So homogenous and voluminous. Today, I billowed clear Across campus, filling