Philip Tinkler, 7/11


On neon bleats
the night ridden mare
running reds
on cold electric hooves
in clockwork linens
twists undo time
What’s in a name?
Who’s inside hers?

I fall for solitude
heart over swoop
wake myself up
to keep me in company
drop forty winks
down a winking well
I find anagrams
of single-letter words

My suicide watch
flashes four eights
little lasses glow
a garish green
I count them jump me
like lost lambs
it puts sin to sleep
and wakes worry

I gargle beyond
her sinkhole glamour
round and round
her curves I conquer
caressing my hand
thinking it’s hers
gasping gaunt chokes
of conversation

Promote. Poetry.
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