I could see love with my ears closed whilst <br />watching a conversation one word in front, <br />opposite a young farmer orders a dirty pint, <br />I'd never met one, <br />later I found his constitution <br />spread across a tiled floor. <br /> <br />As the takings are unrolled to three metres, <br />déjà vu takes me to a time I had not trusted myself, <br />secretly, a twenty one milligram patch leaches the <br />drug of necessity into my breast, <br />and I favour my nails to pistachio, <br />and a nick in the waitress's tights <br />to channel nintey-six post watershed.<br /><br />Simon Bridges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eight-till-twelve/
