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Stain Giften

Sunday, and no work
Monday, a little baggy,
knickers and a t-shirt,
nearly full back pack,
tickets and her passport,
taxi to the airport

I am not her boyfriend.
He is what her friends call

She is what his friends
of their friends’

Before ‘milf’

was a word, unless slurred
for something else.

I am what their world
calls ‘unimportant.’

I am not ‘the sorted’
type, stunted in her flat,

mercury for munny
flowing out the cracks,

to make reflective poetry
we must be freely shaped

and I haven’t had to roll
silverly, ball like
and spreading
into her apartment

behind his back.
Herco, the pilot,
with his family of Anzac
his back is bent
to the wind,
his shoulder is set
to the wheel
of things

with a Hostess
who couldn’t win
for herself
enough trust

in Flight.
I don’t, that often
off the earth, it can’t
be helpful. Tight
veins, Dracula

who must take dirt
in their coffins
when leaving Transylvania

for Virgin, or Musk.
It seems, through the
smoke and bubbles
of the stained bong
she’s going to accept, this

his proposal, my writing
it in down her flat, sitting
out trouble
this dodging of work,
no income, only
the ‘poet-y’ outcome;

the inner city shivers
on the exhalation.
I get nosebleeds
in the heat—

Here is a mess
from earlier: 6 AM
sun warm, girl
in her party dress
blood on her back legs
it’s not what you think

a Bolivian nosebleed
friends doing lines
along her long thighs
two pleasures at once
in their nostrils her
musk scent.

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