The pull of pretty – Poem

The pull of pretty


How much can I trust

that lurch towards an empty

wine glass that looked,

in the morning shadow

full? It’s not easy

to distil life into

fate and labor. I chose

my collected addictions

much like my shoe size. A voice

calls to me above

the asbestos. Let’s smoke

e-cigs, fill the air with

maple syrup. Drown

in sesquipedalians

and photos of ancestors

we never met. When I

got good at pool I started

to see how I could use

mirror tricks to keep clean

without coming clean.

That’s why it’s so fucking

loud in my head. I am

a poet trying to do maths.

Google the word function.

Hand me a geode

I’ll tell you who lived there

before us,

what they did for fun.

I’m just thirsty. Could we use

the soda stream cartridge

to make some kind of mural?

Sweep the reds and chalky greys

up like that cape on the cover

of the Pink Floyd album

and catch enough wind

to take off? There’s already

a mural inside you.

Thing is not everyone sees it.

To this we must drink.


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