I wake to a hand on my tit, gripping
tight with infantile desperation
this has become routine, as are the expert maneuvers
to free myself without waking you,
in order to reclaim some comfort in the early hours
folded up on a hard IKEA sofa
in the spot stained brown with my own blood
with silence and coffee as my only company.
Peace doesn’t last for long. You wake, and one
arbitrary transgression causes an argument
to rip through the walls of my apartment, a hurricane that forces me
through the door and into the world.
The sun glares through the East London skyline
that cages me, a convict
whilst the clouds follow my every frantic step
threatening to crash down like a guillotine.
I catch myself wishing they would.
Blessed are the eyes of God! My wardens
that watch from streetlamp to pavement,
with hot orange eyes
and velvet-soft coos.
You think my reverence is concerning,
Those walks are no good for you
well, let’s show you what I think.
Across the children’s play-park
a seagull rips out the guts of a pigeon,
the devil triumphs over an angel,
and opens its bloody beak,
turns to me,
and speaks in dripping scarlet:
This is the sign you’ve been waiting for.