Published: 30 Apr 2018 › Updated: 30 Apr 2018
Con promise
Are words you have heard him say
The number of times
A clock tick in a day
And all the colourful ones
That attend them, always
Hanging around his mouth
Like innocent halos
But dropping eventually
like rotten mangoes
Squarely in your face
Filling your ears with maggot juice
And he wonders
Why his voice no longer
Excites you
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