hyacinthsayearago:

In Japan, they take a bullet train.

I hitchhike slowly

to somewhere dead, a lover

lurks.  A snake in matted grass,

growing out of splintered beer bottles. Plastic bags cigarette butts.

All forms of excrement. A heavenly pale grey person, reaching to me. I’m

Cold meat. We walk together and lift each other over electric fences,

I look at his face, realise it’s the moon and the stars, and I’m a nocturnal being who navigates by constellations.

If he were the sun, I’d be a sunflower. We stand in a night-time shipping yard by the hollow hull of a oil filled boat –

And I tell him he’s the embodiment of every word I’ve written, my skin is his skin the blood on his mouth is everything.