my fingers stink of coin of
keys a knot in my pocket i
close one eye see my
kitchen where suzanne
squats and writes poems with
right hand on a beer and
left on a cigarette as
if she had authority to
write poems that aren't poems
written about her; are about the
cat she hugged and forgot to feed
the buzzcocks song she first fucked to
the bike she stole and rode home on
the online friend that stalked her
the acid tab she lost in my carpet
and i found it next time i vaccumed
but she behaved as if she dropped it
told me my mother was mary and
mother of all mothers and
mother of all whores and
honey it's the end of the night i said
as we met lips and john the baptist
left his corpse on a fallujah roadside
and i breathed her lilly scent as
she moved out
to persuade the world that
drunk dream is best dream that
sort it out i'm just a girl
can get away with it
that hey world
can't we get along
is better
BUY YOU A
Darren Francis was born in London, but escaped the city's strange attractor in 2005. He currently lives in leafy Bucks, writing and nurturing eschatological escape-plans. His first published book will be out this year. For further information and latest DF news go to darrenfrancis.co.uk.