Truth. Poem by Mary X

Fishing for wood
on the edge of my
mattress

is one of the fine pleasures
of my
room.

I fiddle and fidget
with toiled
cigarettes

lit and spiralling
between my fingers.
There is

still a pong
of poignant
female

corroding my
hormones.
it won’t

let me lie
in a tranquil
daze,

catching the rays
of the green sun
in my desert dreams.

You have to wonder
(my reader)
whether there

is any point
to a woman’s man,
ladies’ man,
man’s man
gay’s man
no-one’s man
living in this

dust of clog,
arteries and
veins;

organs all
working to complicate
one another.

The night is
holding it’s torch
soaring in the sky

looking down on
a whole country
sleeping whilst a

dripping man
failing man
clown man
dead man
is still awake.

You could say
that I stumbled
upon the only certainty.

Mary X.