.Beats Me.

Beats me, the colour of his eyes.
I remember only flocatti,
Dirty, spiking me like thistles
So that I blew my marble dust
out and over
his skin.

Beats me, the number of branches
On the lemon tree outside.
I remember the neck was not familiar,
And how the seconds rattled by,
boulders in the sands of time.
And it struck me like a tomahawk
That I was getting blurry round the edges,
That my fingers were thickening,
That my life no longer rhymed.

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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

One thought on “.Beats Me.”

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