“I want to find truth” she said
I said “the truth is your nipples
pushing up your T-shirt,
the back of this hairbrush, sliding softly
across the inside of your thigh”

but, oh God, she wanted a map

so I drew us a small one
at the bottom it said:

Cool wash.
Dry flat.
Do not iron.

it was sewn into the side
of a rectangular white pub
where we meet ourselves,  older
just leaving , we went with us
and brought  fish and chips
on the outside of the newspaper
was printed a headline:
“Mathematicians, 66, work it out”
we tried:

every time i called you ‘babe’

a kiss at the bus stop
the way rain shines
on a red clay roof

which seemed a short answer
so I sang her this song:

My first love was like
a silky white moonstone
I lost her
in a snowstorm

My second was like
an amethyst purple
I lost her
in a dusk-sky

my third love is like
a blue and grey agate
I am lost
in  her storms




Roger contracted obsessive poetry writing while recovering from a severe bout of novel writing. He has several pieces published in poetry zines and has performed readings at various venues across Northwest England. In his work, he likes to explore the boundaries between meaning and non-meaning, the outer edges of comprehension, disrupting cultural norms. He is currently studying at the Univerity of Salford.

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