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mike bell poems

We Will Get Old

We will then rue
how much time
we dead-stared
at gripping light

Two hundred yards away

Two hundred yards away
a teenager tries to stand
upright on a rolling bale/

My right-hand dares on
your inner thigh – you are
loosened straw alongside

Takeaway in Uckfield

There were lights & sounds
late last night in our funeral
home – busy on newly dead
[quick-quick] as subfusk inks
are let awry on diary pages …/


In 1984 our enemies
were evident – easier
days to direct choler
with words – we spat
sneers & swilled gob
in our mouths

Careless Talk

So how will this [sh!]
viral infection expose
modern insecurities –
will roaming decline?

He who arrives late

He who arrives late
has no bed – said to
me in jest but truer
now that our world
finds loathing easy
to spread