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Ward lives in London UK and is a bit of a maverick writing poems that kick arse (but nicely)

Available from www.erbacce-press.com

On April 18 2010 1 Views

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Erbacce On 18/04/2010

7.30 a.m by Christian Ward

At seven thirty a.m, we’re sick
of Venus playing her same old
film, of listening to the dustmen’s
howitzer call, of the dog playing
games of imaginary fetch.

This hour of waking is a slope
too steep for us to climb,
so we wait for ropes of hands
to be thrown into our bed
buttered with sunlight.

And then, when no fingers
or thumbs materialise,
we stay still and melt
it one another. Your lips
fly the white flag,

signalling our defeat
to the hour. My hands
knock at your breasts
and hips, eager for refuge
against its clambering

Tag - Amor
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