Chunks Of Tin And Last Night
A table scattered with the remains of last night,
by Ian Murdoch
A repetition of the useless,
Waking to the stones on the radio,
And a glass of wine with eyes staring at me while the bathroom fan complains,
Chunks in the pernod sitting in a kitchen full of tins,
Somewhere smiling flowers.
But not here,
A non existent rhythm remains.