by Les Wicks
Never raised your voice
there by the river, whispered
It wasn’t politics, couldn’t be love.
When there’s a head like yours
anything outside it is drear & sloth.
Your chords were unpicked by forensic psychiatrists
& the company stopped paying royalties.
I said that happens…
when no one understands, no one buys.
He said I’d have made
a good agent or warder if I only exercised
my innate fuckugliness better.
You were a beautiful man.
Les Wicks has been published across 32 countries in 15 languages. His 14th book of poetry is Belief (Flying Islands, 2019). He can be found at leswicks.tripod.com/lw.htm.
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