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Public Prosecution
25 Oct 2009

You wouldn’t know love
if wild horses pulverised your sinoatrial node
into hallucinogenic stardust,
poured it from a diamante spoon into the mouth of Aphrodite
and broadcast the whole event live on Smooth FM

You wouldn’t know remorse
if it chewed your earlobes in an orange room packed
with unpacked suitcases,
shredded litigation transcripts
and the autobiography of Judas Iscariot serialised on a distorted tannoy
next to your bed of nails

You wouldn’t know respect
if Otis Reading was your gardener

You wouldn’t know joy
if a convoy of hot air balloons
swept you across the solar system
and dropped you on a moonlit port
in time to sling champagne bottles against a ship
carrying sherbet to the Benny Goodman Orchestra

You wouldn’t know longing
if 16 orphans stitched you into a corset of viola strings
and plucked you in E minor

You wouldn’t know I miss you
because i never tell you I do

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