‘Her breath was soft, the wind was warm
Someone in a room was born’
– Jim Morrison, ‘The Connectors’
The voice of the serpent
slid into my ear, creaking
leather and snakeskin,
black boots aslant,
hair tickling my neck.
We had an agreement,
shared sex and drugs,
but he promised me
the future, told me
paradise would come
through his music
and our nights together.
He swallowed the pills,
I swallowed the story,
found him next morning,
dead in the bath,
a drowned angel
who lost his voice
trying to sing me
an impossible song.
© Rupert M Loydell
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