it seems this time (3:05 and ripe) that we're not to blame
for a mingled note, a carotid decibel
like a drunk making follow-throughs on whispers,
a spittle homily to disgusted convocations.
heard that he heard about your glamour
and sought the dandy-fine couture of your hand in
slight and ill
how then to think that you, without your plans or
happy days, can't have thought this through...
when in this hour, fixated breathless on a drool-
stained pillow, alternating and aggravating the air-bubble in
my brain (posterior-fossa) - near the part where the cerebellum pokes
out into a spine - and thinking of his thin hands, his thick eyes
pouring and pouring
over you
and why, in this decorum, you didn't care enough to see
the arc of imposition - the fine way you fuck him
and the needles in my nerves that run the length of
the Finchley Rd and down, out to the pebbled sea
and Brighton's lost summers
where, if the fish & chip van doesn't come
we'll serve without