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eat a peach & fall asleep
red-lipped tilted & blown away like a daffodil head
into the mud-slicked rushes where the noise of gunfire
in monsoon is sodden flies spat into a microphone
they neither smack or enter the flesh but pull lashes
of blood from bodies yanking intestines into a pile
so clean they shine like Jesus arms in piles or alive
clutching around the back to feel the bullet bitten
deeper than sleep money clean cotton sheets
twitching the last bolts at the bottom of the heart
dreams swallowed whole babies crawling
on chests now a femur slipped through the skin
like a silk scarf an ankle turned the wrong way
in the dirt & this is what bound means tied by ropes
of politic & wealth to this country this war running
through fields where grenades disturb the flowers
drenched in glees of water the blood the shit
the tip-tap of rain on the tin of my helmet
just as it slides down my mother’s conservatory
where things sit square & simple the chair
where I could smoke eat a peach & fall asleep
not knowing what I don’t know
I cry when he tries to put his hands on me or kiss me
you said his face coming & going in storms
as you told me how his nails slipped in
& you singed your eyes shut dreamt
of a perfectly-suited husband a garden-
full of flowers but the image
was interrupted by his grunts
as the dahlias turned into themselves
in disgust the hole-punch moon mute
as you stared beyond his shoulder
& all that feeling dissolved away
your mother’s voice a penny shaking
in your head both our heads
when I try to kiss the mascara from your eyes
& you shake so hard saying it’s not you
please understand it’s not you
one-night-stand café
in all their gloriously different skirts
they sit at the cafe singing Al Green
together their fingers spacing inches
comparing stopwatches where the glass cracked
spent their eyes dim in dark coffee
remembering how summer dresses hungered hands
thumbs glassy in the sun before my nails struck the seam
of another’s stockings & wouldn’t come loose
how I now tap the tip of a knife on the bone over my heart
at the idea that she will soon conquer someone else
with her mouth so I tell her the same thing
each day & her lips cramp over you too
as this becomes more complicated than she thought
how she enters every room of her life
like a perfume advert & this love holds me
mid-air a skewed picture nailed against
the greasy wall hung on the edge of its hook
Daniel Sluman is a 27 year old poet based in Gloucestershire. His poems have appeared widely in journals such as B O D Y, Cadaverine, Popshot, Shit Creek Review, and Under the Radar. He received an MA in Creative & Critical Writing from the University of Gloucestershire in 2012 and his debut full-length collection, Absence has a weight of its own, was published to critical acclaim in 2012. His second collection the terrible will be published Autumn/Winter 2015, also with Nine Arches Press. He tweets @danielsluman
Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter – [email protected]
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