Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

Working Week - five poems (scroll below)

The World is Running Down

 

Words can’t fix it, but every day,

in the gray of morning,

 

I lean over the keyboard

and pretend again that they can.

 

published 10 October 2011

 

Poem

 

You ask why I count

the number of pills in the bottle,

 

or tear up the tulips,

or kick back to the surface.

 

Well, hell,

 

every poem is a blue fiasco

teeming with wild birds.

 

published 11 October 2011

 

Period

 

The fat lady

who sits down

 

at the end

of every sentence

 

with a loud

and painful sigh

  

published 12 October 2011


The Gloom of Sometimes

 

How many ways are there to kill a man?

Today I wrote nothing.

 

Deer wander out of the trees onto our road.

I make a gun with my finger.

 

for Thursday 13 October 2011

 

After Rejection

 

I woke up in my clothes

and still kind of drunk.

 

Fuck poetry! A ghost seated

before a blank mirror.

 

published Friday 14 October 2011