A turquoise mat is fraying
on the piss-stained floor
where plastic bags trail
like discarded ankle-socks.
Foil dishes glint, crowd
cans of empty Carlsberg
spilled across newsprint,
nub ends, crumpled tissues.
A hooded jacket slumps,
warms empty syringes
still as tiny glass birds
who dreamed a skylight.
I am not a silent poet 
Reblogged this on reubenwoolley.
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