Les Wicks
Page 2
City Limits
Endless because
we finish with a fray.
The rations of dirt, gorge
& mountain are our fences the
slurry of growth.
He rides a late train
busy in its friendless distraction.
Exhausted, the light crawls under worn coats.
Youths make a noise they’re
frightening, those suggestions in the
whiskers of working men. A woman is alone.
Mobiles murmur love while
windows refuse the view.
Appetite is elusive,
husks of hands all wrapped
in wary colour.
Pavemeant
Water the chords
a deluge
this bistro bird-fuss
work at songs
worry the hot-plate haunches
with my tired teeth.
Flail our arms
eight levels of rage & love
tumble up or down identical
momentum under fingertips.
This microdebetage, the chert
& frets so noisy Saturdays until
I adore him cuts
through the tobacco of our walls.
Orogeny works down by the kitchen.
Bizarre is the last deception left, begin
a new soundtrack.
Some drinks
then we stream. Newtown
has forgotten how to chuckle, so serious.
Bernadette’s carious curiosity still flaps in
furious feathers.
We wave down pleasure
beside a bus-stop midden.
Page 3
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Les Wicks.
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