Sayonora, DUP

A solitary Xmas decoration still hung in September
solemn souvenir that the walls were closing in
and the demented South African drew her last blood from me

Lovers and vodka posted ‘Wanted’ posters
on every besieged street corner,
field notes on survival were lost in wastelands

Cursor became beacon
amidst oceanic detritus,
lonely man in lighthouse
google-searched his heart,
this wasn’t the Underground of commuters
or theatre lovers wishing to break Shakespeare’s spine

Maybe she was the Spanish girl
playing with her hair, awaiting her
friend in that octagon of Tate Gallery mirrors
viewing from six different angles
the way her nipples look through that black vest

Maybe he was the American vet
napalm upon stanzas, comrade
guts lying in dream ghettos,
bordellos the mere promise
of lipstick upon stubble

Or just maybe it was the cathartic
release of kitchen plates over shoulder blades
the desire to just be

Anonymous rat, slobbering in her trap wrote
“I like your poetry, but not your poems”
and I knew, the car was running out of diesel
but somehow, gears had flamed into being,
disapproval can paint skies orange and blue
don’t they know behind the hues of politeness
all they wish to write is fuck you?

Forever haunted by not holding her final breaths
there is no poetry for broken dreams nestled on a corpse,
the only ghost in my bed
who kisses me goodnight