Burnt Photographs Under The T-Shirts of Allen Ginsberg

We lost those pictures
in the back of our pockets,
so were the poses we paused in
affronting piles of post that
belonged to post masters and their offices;
their bitches doing their post-death work,
shifting those postcard and postage labels
around on pink, red, pink again palettes
around parks of paper and the roads
down to Lord Street and it’s high power
of bus stroke engine and pretty pink leggings
perfectly pouting and winking in the sun,
perfecting picking out a canyon beside the smooth foot hills,
perfect, perfect, prefect again.
The perfect portrayal of perfection.
She’s a cheap phoney that parades around,
the ‘bad at English’ phantom over and behind
a curtain tall, a curtain broad and curtain painted
by the brush of stage hand and production manager.

We found those pictures we lost
in our already filled pockets,
we dug them out from under printed receipts,
printed coupons and printed pieces of paper
that decided to hide away in a perpetual sleep,
rolled over in between thigh and prince-jean-pocket-lining.
They petered out from the beginning
and now they rest like burnt photos.

You can still grab a copy of my eBook 'Prostitutes and New York: The Chasm Between Experience and Cold Feet' here on Amazon. Also, this morning I wrote an article for the Huffington Post UK website maybe up quite soon! Enjoy y'all!