Number 54

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I am not blood-steamed
by spine loosening grunts
across bare white backs
laid out below Istanbul
on arse-warmed marble


I am pinned and pressed
as if sleeping badly
but up
awake on a chassis-rattled bus
sat with other stained weights
drawing my dank suspires

Old condensation cools
on glass

almost rolled tears
on soused windows

There’s no near side view

Above a wettened aisle
fellow devotees look on
with a quiet resignation

We are gathered
in Our Driver’s
rear-view mirror

It is
my lost route
of timeless sways and whines

of an engine in county lanes
taking me

a cold damp traveller

I am compressed
and sat stop-blind

I am not
this time

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.

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