Thursday, 22 July 2010


Transmitters on top of the telephone exchange

Protrude above trees in the town centre

Like the tips of paper cracker crowns

That no one has bothered to put on.

Smudges of - is that ice cream or sick? –

Sputter and hiss in the heat like airlock bolts

As though the streets were flaying themselves

To reveal a gigantic intestinal Pacman machine.

Familiar as the scent of Old Spice or blood

Is the act of turning away from a photographer,

You claim it’s because you hate your own face

But don’t admit you’re afraid that everyone else will too.

And you will spend the rest of your life wishing

That there was an app to always tell you

To keep on ignoring news about those

For whom life leaves no time for favourites.

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