I only ever write about sex and hangovers

Comedown music lifts my skin flakes
and allows them to float with the updraft
to standing neck height,

where they dissipate.

Infinity is the gap between the skirting and carpet,
the longer I stare and twitch,
the tighter fix it has on our reality -

those chair legs are big on your belly,
that waste paper basket is screaming to be burnt,
but I can't get up

under this tent of blue,
in this pre-noon light that's denying the ceiling
it's capacity for being opaque -

stripped of it's frequency, it urges me to stop calling
and if it would pick up,
the dial tone birds would stop talking

-about sex

and sweat,
and the viscosity of bodily fluids
and how they taste in the car park

whether or not the suspension knows
and if he cares,
he cares not to stand in the way.

1 2