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




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




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