You may find me today

You wouldn’t happen to know

where to find me?

Perhaps I’ve wedged myself

behind the one festering

eye of my yesterday again,

in the café

where all the books and teapots

are bolted shut.

Or I could be trapped

in the spinster’s pocket,

face to face

with her undead child,

while she bombards me

with her nervous ticks

and the dried up vagina

of her soul.

Or I’ve wandered

into the steep streets

of the young women,

going up like legs

to the place where

I’d love to die someday.

But I’m cowered

by their terrible foreheads

and made to endure the brain clots

of girls held together

by pins and lips.

Or I’ve reached

the cold grey pier,

that juts like a curse

thrown at the sea,

where I’m silent as terracotta

and buffeted by

the song of the godless foam

and carved into my loneliness.

And if you happen to find me,

please let me know.

I’d love to have myself back.

I’d love to discuss this

with myself over coffee.

 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

 

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