this level of toxicology you feel the pulse
like someone hitting your fingertips with a hammer
all up your arms the little shocks
christmas morning and the room full of paper
the theme to The World at War in your head, yours
I can hear it
do you know that?
Lawrence Olivier?
I apologise
I have mistaken you
for this ghost
who now in the attics moans
the same old stuff
dolls, dust, rafters, stuffing, waking, rearing
wouldn't it be nicer to just get past it
fold each other in
fuck all day
interspersed by sleeps and holds
and deep clutches
the unending ghost-love, the fearful and needing reach
and surround, the endings of flesh
and such soft drinks?
.
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