Custody

Those muffled sounds came from my chest,
visions bringing the wretched splendour
of bar side arrhythmia, as I gazed as smiles
easily translated into night-time joys.

There is no touch, no easy consolation
in the provisional sharing of skins,
our plots of bed and couch and alleyways
for rent, hoarded in cattle markets

contaminated with beer-stirred craziness
forgetting judgment, and wishing
for one moment of custodial grace
to come grant freedom from limb-torn cells.

We construct and behold our prisons
through the critical eyes of others;
hope to soften their looks
through the prayer of drink.

Our hunger is misguided, condemned
to sup from the shallow end of the bowl.
It is a frail but fragrant bone
we choose to chew on.

Todays best new poem was written by Colin Dardis.

 

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