boredom creeps
and the tinted, dirt speckled screen
is no company
when up against
the blood orange gaze of the sun –
burn covering my chest
from yesterday’s bake off.
there’s no escape from boredom
when you’re not procrastinating
because there’s nowt to do
in the first place
but the level of pressure
squashing that nowt
is not nowt at all –
it’s a monstrous fun sponge
sucking life and love from limb
rendering days dry
and desolate
mouths open
but nothing to say
fingers shoved into gussets
in search of redemption.
lemon groves and Spanish marble
sultry Split and Big Apples
so rosy your mouth waters
are so far away
you can’t taste the freedom anymore
and pearl-stained beaches
are no longer on the horizon.
talking to my pillow. 