“I wrote this on the back of my hand…”

I wrote this

on the back

of my hand:

 

“Dangled lip

pressed as teeth to

tourniquet, to old

chin, with a hole in it—

laughed, embarrassed,

never knowing,

where to place

my hands or face

when she’s looking.

No longer the bumbling one—

too old, poor, decayed & stoned—

34, lost too many years as

pop-punk pretender,

emo-wad wanker,

straight-edge-

tat loser.

I am,

just as you called,

I am.

Torrent of new fiction

splayed over crunchy

guitar licks; a room with

mirrors, round & coded to

metaphor-ed perfection.

Spear-like greenery

given to

weed beds, &

nonsense long poems

written on

ancient

besotted hands,

roofed in

new lead,

as I waited

patiently in

the rainfall;

as she came so Q U I C K.”

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