A poem by BENJAMIN WATTS.

Dawn haze lapped the linen milk-yellow
Dappled with violet mullioned shadows
Where gently, gentle
Soft dust motes wandered
Above her waist; then wavered, mellowed.

 

He saw, lightly, the primrose glow
Lathe warmth onto her ash white toes;
Same warmth, last night
In her smile, amused
When he placed Friedkin over Clouzot.

 

Narcotic warmth that seemed to linger
In her wrinkled mouth’s commissure.
Gazing at her still
He gathered his clothes
Basking in last night’s lurid picture.

 

How electric, their first clash of minds!
Dissecting Dylan while hoovering lines!
That spark of her smirk
At arch Žižek memes
Reeled in his head, as he left her behind!

 

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Her lids: shutter-draw,
Eyes roll in bored regret.
Nostrils: now open,
Absent of his milky breath.

 

Fingers nurse her bitten nape,
That last night said ‘alright then’
After he went on about The Basement Tapes;
Now purple, irritated.

 

Wincing at the bright hot sun
She wonders how he went from
Defending GG Allin
To humping mildly away
Like he was in a fucking Nicholas Sparks film.

 

Then her lock screen blinks awake:
[email protected] SQUAD: ‘How was it??’

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