and in bright morning

  Jenny’s alarm clock stabs my attic it’s 6:30 on a frost-fern window Saturday morning in coal-house January 73   I’m jerked awake cold, bleary  my teeth are crumbling. the bandage on a septic sore is leaking pus from a red line from armpit to fingertip  others spread feet to groin                                                                 last month’s last week’s last night’s whizz is

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Chuck

Chuck     after midnight and too much tequila booted from the Bar Tropicana my nose feels broke   taxis ain’t running means a long stagger back down siling rain-swept alleyways   I kicked the door open the clock crashed from the wall to the kitchen floor   I propped it half-cock against the ‘World’s Best Dad’ cup I stole

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Venus in a red dress

  a tedious Baggot Street nineteen fifty three   gathering of ‘the literati’ not my choice of company until a red-haired red dress vision sent my imagination winging to Venus – as per Botticelli.   if she noticed me, my bohemian dishevelry, air of rive gauche poverty, might have turned her off, or turned her on… conceivably.   my eyes

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‘invisible woman’

  at a Driffield cafe window table looking out at nothing much to see   on dreary Middle Street, a grey woman, plastic bonneted mac buttoned to beat the dreich, pressed against the wind into Tindall’s for her regular half dozen eggs two slices of ham, translucent, and chicken breasts for her poodle, named after her husband, long in his

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