There’s plenty to crack onto, he says, a laundered Valkyrie stomps the DIY:
I reconstitute in the shed, my notes can hit the rafters,
no-one’s selfing over it, like upstairs
on their asbestos balustrade,
a tick-off at the slightest, though their kid
chatters and bounces on the planks.
At last summer rises on a blue cactus.
Without, it’s crumpled outside of time and dead.
I’m not the stonkered students, the pilled dancer,
the hail whomever, the arraigned owner,
not otherwise entitled, just the louvered kitchenette
or that and bin patrol that keeps you.
His in-law’s detrimental, or forgotten,
to home’s lathe and tack, a jail for your thoughts, and schemozzle.

Gig Ryan

Published in Have Your Chill (2017), edited by Pete Spence.