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17/11/2016

so long, lonesome

Al Anderson

back in belly of smoke
    & he’s ready to make
                his peace with
                  god, I guess
                  golden soles walked down to the bone
                  should take it easier on
                  himself, or whatever           on & on form unto itself
all our love begat an indecipherable algorithm
peeling red distant echoes of skyline
staring out a train window
hands up to the stunted
suburban cosmos & ‘ok. you got me.’
                americana dreaming slipping through
a shattered lavatory cistern, dripping all night
                after everyone’s gone to bed &
                rubs amber sunset into his gums
            a cut past noon bleeds
            ultraviolet plasma
            all week long
            such a str8 boi
    unhealthy nostalgia
    & vine leaves up the side of his mother’s house &
    slipping through his fingers
all the marble swimming pools in cheshire overflowed with
tenderness  &  functionalism & cryptic songs
of alone at the kitchen table
of sipping from expensive tea cups
3 AM is all he has
with his — er — hair &
blue prayers
his dreams of an
unknown
visitor

 


Al Anderson was published in the 2016 UEA Creative Writing MA Anthology: Poetry

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