Chunks Of Tin And Last Night

A table scattered with the remains of last night,

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.

Somewhere,

But not here,

A non existent rhythm remains.

by Ian Murdoch

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