By JOSHUA MORRIS
23 years old
University of Waikato
Split, the lid crumpled it into your cup
Hands grazed, three shades from the knuckle.
By the toilet, drunk, blind
and outrageous. Spitting
for the hit.
It aches in your scalp
Uneven fringe puffed over forehead,
hair rushed into a bun
the how are you response
A year has to come out. Somehow
don’t have to hide anymore,
the running is done by different feet,
over the Tasman.
My head is on a lean
just a lightly motion
violence at a distance now
trawling over the macula
diving into the optic disk
shadow. I’m sitting in the shallows
reading. Pages fluttering on coiled spines.
Blood pressure pulling nylon
fibre from a Huxley dystopia.
It has been alright for so many of us
it took enough effort to find a clean table top.
This poem is part of the TEARAWAY Young Poets feature for National Poetry Day.FOLLOW US...
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