When the romance is over, there’ll be mountains of washing up, used tissues, ashes, and every sink blocked,

less comforts, more phone calls, alternate high-fibre-low-fat, more picture-perfect contacts, messages, and kicked buckets,

cellophane wrappers, overflowing rubbish, levelled liquid letters that sharpen sparks in dull eyes,

no music playing, just the incessant hum of speakers, skin-tight memories, and their dire need of breath,

inherent, inherited, responsibility and obligation, telling someone you could never love a lie, with certain conviction,

on a microphone wire all failures get hung, the death of the animal, its constant martyrdom and pardon,

kitchens of possibilities, visions and hymns, motion’s opalescent picture show, broken and thin,

ideomotor movements, tambourine twilights, gestural fading neon, over clockwork ocean skylines,

surrendered currents and allowed disasters, devoured present moments of fresh flesh and bone.

crudely dubbed promises, beginning’s march and end, monumental gardens, hanging threads and beds,

the cracked parchment lips of sleep and time, the seeds and germs of stolen spindles and story,

ruby red crescents in assembled steady echoes, on a stained empty page, where once a poem laid waste.

Tomorrow could be any of a hundred days.




     © Greg Fiddament 2020

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