Plight of the Wicked

Let’s fly, you and I, let’s do it together

forget your coffee cup, leave it sitting on this grubby table

in this grubby town. It will make a ring and I

will draw a moon made out of sugar to be it’s companion.

A heap of moondust, that’s all we’ll leave,

and cold coffee with my lipstick on it;

                                                   not red enough for feme fatale, but more a slimy childhood pink-

the colour of saliva and playing

at being grown up – Come on! Just put it down and let’s be gone

                                                                       There is a night hovering beyond the door that is a giant dog, panting,

and I want to be chased, under puddles made by lamplights

we trip our way to twisted spikes of metal gates; fe fi fo fum:


                                                                                       There is a rash growing behind my ears because you keep laughing, 

choking on us like vomit, 

coughing it up in splutters which I hush,

                                                                                  hush hush hush, someone will hear.

Hear the scrape of my shin on the spire of the gate

                                             or hear me asking you with no words for things we can’t have or the squeak of your untied shoes against the lock

on the door.


Will they hear out flumping bodies and hissing breath as we land,

                                                baby seagulls out of the nest, drunkenly squaking?


Grass in my ears

and your absurdly long eyelashes lit up

                                  for a second, like corn or bread or something golden and homey like that – wheatfields and england


                                                   I think of honey on pancakes

and lick my lips.


                                                                                         The sky above is blue with the twilight weight – the erotic un-darkness

                    of scotland in summer

 where everything is seen and alive that bit longer.


We’re here now,

                             I want to say,

We’re here now, 

and your hand is so close

            to my bloody shin – Should I tell you I have blood in my socks, or would                                        that ruin the moment – so very close to the end,

                                                   and the start, and the fucking heart of things and my jeans get sticky

                                                                  Lie with me on the edge of friendship and the bridge of fucking doom and dew on the grass –

Let’s fly.





4 thoughts on “Plight of the Wicked

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