George Duggan

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Love is not cake

my hand a tourist
in yours, you tell me love
is not cake which
is true in as much as rage 
is not a dog nor worry
a father. still the morning
finds me buried (a fish hauled 

up gasping). how much water
never made its way through me?
poured instead out of the
windows, onto the street.
my pale Chip circling its own
ghostly tail is surely rehearsing
for death. my pulse is still adamant

I am running. o, when will my veins
reconcile with my skin? and
I can think of nothing but
happy songs – snide fuckers.
I must be in a good place now. 

darling we are so vivid like this – a slow
motion fracture and you have
never looked so gorgeous. but
still men sweeping in the park,
empty worksites, the impression
of change, dogs congregating like
bald men in beer gardens, the
relentless beauty of the sky hung
over us, perfectly square sinkholes
in the pavement, in my
                                              ribcage.

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GEORGE DUGGAN is a British/Irish writer, radio producer and filmmaker based in East London. He is currently a member of the Roundhouse Poetry Collective and a resident on Rainy City Radio.