The General Election, 2010
I didn’t know I was a poet yet
but I borrowed your words and
made a note of them on my phone.
The streetlight illuminates my
living room. An ice cube melts in
your whisky, which means
it’s watering down. Soon I will
take a cigarette, blow into
the melee of smoke, and drift
into the comfort of your arms,
where there’s always room for me
and where the air is expensive.
Slightly drunk, I watch the coverage
newsreaders and MPs become
frantic and scramble for something
to say. You breathe me in this time
and the moon appears to pulsate
like a jellyfish in the sky. We drink
more and your boyfriend asks where
the bathroom is. When the election
is over we’ll fall asleep on eachother
and wake up now and then to check
we’re all still here, and happy.
I miss you now, my partner in crime
my brother, in a light spring suit.
Everything goes away, eventually.
We think we have control but we don’t
the coverage is ending and we’re
no closer to knowing our fate.