It smelt like static late spring.
Two cigarettes had turned to five
I was later than normal.
Running, flecks of mud through nylon,
pulling out my pass.
I found a place in the audience.
Harry O' I can't spell my own fucking pseudonym.
Can't bring myself to write it.
Harry, in a fucking dicky-bow,
irresistible, insatiable. †
The man has a voice like
long fingered vines. Hours.
It took just hours for him to wrap his way
around my follicles and platelets.
Harry O' I didn't have a chance.
Half way though the months when
a swallow made my summer.
I learnt longing had no limits.
He took me to chase the fairies
From the mouth that forced whiskey
through my lips. Bit thorns from my feet. †
"You can't let me become your first novel."
I had a back catalogue you know?
Novellas, poems, stories.
My life turned ink.
Personality pixellated. †
Reinvented, stylized, fantasized.
Those pieces that brought me to him.
Who knew you can be your own Siren?
Now I'd replace my cells with verbs.
Entrails with nouns. It' something
all consuming trying to turn him into words.