Fishing for wood
on the edge of my
mattress
is one of the fine pleasures
of my
room.
I fiddle and fidget
with toiled
cigarettes
lit and spiralling
between my fingers.
There is
still a pong
of poignant
female
corroding my
hormones.
it won’t
let me lie
in a tranquil
daze,
catching the rays
of the green sun
in my desert dreams.
You have to wonder
(my reader)
whether there
is any point
to a woman’s man,
ladies’ man,
man’s man
gay’s man
no-one’s man
living in this
dust of clog,
arteries and
veins;
organs all
working to complicate
one another.
The night is
holding it’s torch
soaring in the sky
looking down on
a whole country
sleeping whilst a
dripping man
failing man
clown man
dead man
is still awake.
You could say
that I stumbled
upon the only certainty.
Mary X.