You hear my silence
as polysyllables
of unuttered words
thumping against a wall
behind which my heart hides.

In the grip
of our goodbye hug
you hear desire
gushing beneath
the gaze you do not see

I read your thoughts
from scents of aloe vera
and opium round your neck.
your hairspray completes
the chemistry that nails me
for substance abuse
because I inhale.

The smile on your face
against my chest
say I do well to inhale you
in such large dose
but I worry about legal limits
and those that will read
me my rights and enter a charge
of loving under the influence.

Yet there's a certain
mystery to your clinch
that makes me wonder
further if it's all real
or I'm just being a poet
Imagining things.


At the pub tonight
One intellectual type
Had a pint too many
And said things that demean his class
But he'll deny in the morning
When sobriety returns to reinstate his status
Then I'll unleash the ultimate treachery

The Maicrocoft Parrot Version 3.4
Our intellectual friend
Will hear himself say:
'fuck all' twice
'cunt' thrice
'dickhead' four times
'excuse my language' once
in my book, that is speaking
while under the influence

and under the influence
lifts the lid on things
runs the mouth tap
to release us,
we're nature

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