A social site for poets in Sydney.
Flash me a sign that isn't a finger or a crucifixion
Stick your fingers down my throat
Until you reach my heart
And squeeze that black pebble so it starts beating again.
Shitting in a bag and breathing through a tube
Is a hard habit to break.
There's a slow sweetness to my clichéd decay.
Dying is boring after a year or five.
I saw your wraith tonight, out of focus
Dancing in time with an ugly ancient beat
The percussion of sex or murder
Entering me like smoke.