Quite literally just written this, so any comments are welcome
Best
Dave
In those days an angel of tar wept, scalding the mud village
And the poet shrank, to the scrub fields, as the square
Thronged with the burnt voices of the hurt, pelting shadows,
That hid like strangers in caves, or walked alone, with blame.
The poet grew thinner, like silicon, punching the desart waste
Softly with his head, like a lost love recalled, and as hunger
Stood up from his body, like a son leaving home, he thought
Of the sex of angels, man-woman both, and in slow fucks
And long rhythms, he lay with the sky on both sides of his bed.
While the armies he fled from raised their standards in his head.
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
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