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Then he was tired of hurling himself
against the flashing, jingling cage of the city...

Silent appreciation
is overrated now...

Cradling a microphone on
the stage a scrunch of...

Tea drinking and tutting, while
Constantly tucking...

I refer to the story of the soldier and the woman...
He tied her thighs together so she could not give...

A mirror ball sits on my window sill,
Small and cheap, a remnant of some party...

Upon my dusty window sill,
a pair of plants...

I have a thought; I would extract and polish it
tenderly, almost every moment...

I broke my leg
the other day...

My sisters dance to heaven's music,
ears tuned to hymns, eyes fixed on stars...

This poem isn't mine at all
It starts and stops like someone else's poem...