our poems
are written on the back of pay slips

we spend all morning
arguing about revolution
only to decide that it is time to eat lunch

i take a trip to chinatown
& feel my skin dissolving
in a neon language

when i get home
you ambush me at the kitchen table
with a mouldy toothbrush
& tell me stories
about eating acid
in art galleries

as if hunter s. thompson
knew
more
than i do now

at 2:04am
in a cold bed listening to the sound of apocalypse
in my stomach…