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Poetry by Charly Flynn
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Sharp Reflect
 The waterfall from my sink-tap
Distracts me from the mould on the window
My dust-jarred reflection
Stares through the gloom to the plug-hole
Which greadily eats my face hair
And also my razor blood
My phone/black dead for the night
The establishment of my table was important
No time/but I sharp reflect on when
You bullied my penis into submission
I collect on these schemas
And pay out (less) bed tax
So please f*ck off and let me play
The morning after like pigeons
Dropping after poisen binges
Empty fridge contents/bin eats
It's been hungry for weeks
I came home to look after it
It was unwell. No rubbish
I was unwell. No food. No sleep
Too much junk/my brain now in sharp reflect




For my Alcohlic Husband

my alcoholic husband came in sober today
the shocked look on my face
my darling love had'nt come in drunk
well I saw my reflection in the hall mirror
how fucking wrong is that?
my neon t-shirt/I am a housewife
I celebrate my life
because I wanted to make a pop-art statement of boredom
I longed once for Paris but now I don't give a fuck
I just wait in my massive house
for my alcoholic husband to come home and fuck me for 2 minutes
not arsed because he's been shagging Maureen
his bastard secretary but i won't take a lover
look in my net dark cleaned curtains
the aspidistra dies brain cells in his head paradoxically gone
so I sit happy with my life after streets
for my alcoholic husband




Stained Fingers

My light buzzed
As the cold filled/ from the window
Where the spider was

My body is shattered
Rejuvenate/Sleep. Stop
Cigarettes pull me down (into this thought)

Am I a man
Of such distinction

That my stained fingers
Won't make a mark

On this country that I loathe?

What they can do is this:
Write/Construct/fight/touch
For senses on senseless themes but

I know as well as anyone
That a word can alter the world:
Bombs/Terrorist/Government/
Science/famine/war

Man

For I am the man they talk of
The one with the stained fingers
And the glass surveilence camera eyes

I see humans (pause), I see humans
Finding new and improved ways of killing themselves
From gunpowder plots to mobile phones in cars

Death in transit of a nation
Now more instant celebrity than shopkeepers
Of Jordan and Peter and of Chantelle and Preston

I wonder why I stain my fingers
I could clean them but then again
In that way

I wouldn't even be leaving a mark
On myself

Man

Yes I am the man they talk of



  

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