Wrecked, by Patrick Williamson

I am not a silent poet

Rumbling buses,
petal your blouse perks up roadside
you spewing night in gutter.

Stealthy, or not so, they
tracking my clacking heels
jumped me, hand smothering gob.

Bleeding 1 am. I freeze
at the slightest spit,
breathing on the sidewalk

a half wraith, half bruised face
in the grey blue
undergrowth of grit silence

slinky bouncers spat me out
you vermin
you early morning stalkers

you bastard couldn’t tell them
where I was, smashed
sirens somewhere spluttering air

I wipe my mouth again
your rotten breath
never vanishes
touching my mirror
smeared lipstick, sickened, alone.

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