election poem

have not wrapped around you
as string sounds might
if they may, autumn
or June cold coming close.

March is still safe
march on like a highway.
Uncertainty magnifies loud voices
the little tyrannies
of boredom.

Perhaps sex on a train
would be quick.
Fuck the indicators!
They mean nothing.

The city’s spilt seed
is gashed by taxis.
I have no balls to hide
nothing to hang on to
the levers don’t work anyway.

Maybe it’s an election
strategy you’re too tired
to believe in -
the sore arse and the sorry breast
whipped and milked.

Perhaps it’s more fun
than breathing.


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