MONO ISSUE 2 - Flipbook - Page 69
HURLING ROCKS AT THE MOON
by Ben Carr
Clutchin at one another’s flesh we twist an
writhe in the car-park. The chlorinated vent o’
the leisure centre, like tepid piss
washin over us. No disinfectant
could clean us now. Lost tae the dark,
ah find you spewin in a grit-bin. You blame
the moon; we hurl rocks at it. Ah arc
the vodka intae my eyes. The gymnastics game
o’ undressin: beyond us. Entangled but
now estranged. My ear on the concrete, ah succumb
tae the sound o’ the earth, spinnin my nut frae its
bolt. The final tendril o’ thought—my Mum, holdin
my hand intae the shallow end,
sayin It’s Ok, I’ve got ya Ben.
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