Thursday 26 November 2009

#61 - Toby Jones' Lost Fuck

O, he would walk the barrel-vaulted catacombs
with slobbering torch and a terrible, howling mouth

like a hole torn in a jersey,
blinded by rheum and tears.

His rages would windmill, gathering momentum
till he was clawing at the dank walls:

The phantom appellation of a sure thing

evaporated in the time it took
for him to turn towards her,

tilt his head,
and vomit down her blouse.

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