it wasn’t the big blue of them that turned your lacrymal ducts into taps but
the long black words, and what happened later. even when
her skirt                flew up, you only managed a 
    lower-case smile . 

the day was glass-coloured. you breathed through pricked holes.
sucked on angst like nicotine. 
sure, you (don’t) want to know is she a better fuck?
but more, is she a better fucking writer?


you saw one at first, then another but you let it 

and then, like drops before the storm, pops 
of it: cars, slow downs, construction jackets, bin lids, bags,
like a series of visual pinches

that’s when you cried
on the street                in front of 
the chinese chick with Sailor Moon hair and
the boy you would have checked out on a drier afternoon.

three taxis, a banana peel, your own reflection
(well, it is the colour of sickness)
a leaflet on the floor

you stopped seeing other colours. there were no other colours. 
and it is only when you got home and saw
the fragile pinkness of your eyes that you realised
there is always everything,
no matter what you choose to see

there is a picture of you as a kid,
wearing a prison-striped t-shirt that you loved.
and you remember 
that the collar was yellow.

and you fucking hated yellow.



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

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