Two poems by Kit Fryatt
crêpe suzette
No news good but a note from you
a line, son of havoc melt
morning errand
afternoon intercourse
liquorice
salt
wood on the downs
silty
coffee
conies
catch
the light is already evening long
before two p.m.
civil dusk, draw on
afterglow
don’t got no
mutton
got cunnies tho
(pleasure beech, plz)
pine sober spruce & amorous
slap on Onan cans
& work, as we wake, into astronomical twilight
Nothing matters but a line from you
a note
single string busk
These are the days and place
of the sandhound
and the windyman
the dwarf leprechaun
swithers on his kapok
bum—his panstick
is No. 7 #0008, dung—
for tips, but he looks stood up.
The streets smell of shit
less than shat
yourself, a pebbledash
ziplock frowst
that means sweatshakes
spells jonesboner.
Unwind into a cooler lager;
the whole country’s a tommyshop
at this stage, relax.
Buy an act in a box
off an old lag
empty poke, notch it up.
Let out that tradesman’s Irish
mammy gasp, pull strings
the blunt surgeon says
you’re at risk of greater things.
Steel bones vex, cave. Con
this one weird old tip.
The boy with the mice in his eyes
still thinks you gotta have a repertoire