Tracy Emin

I call your voicemail to talk
about Tracy Emin, lying in state
in my bed, and the things that says
about me, and us, and them.

I imagine that bed floating
down the effluent of the Thames,
through clouds of purple
smoke, myself

an almost corpse unable
to enjoy the iron of London Bridge
the colour of a blood
orange, but lying in state

in my bed. I’m glad you
didn’t answer. Imagine
I’m the cigarettes, you’re the
ash. The call can wait.

Originally published in Precocious (Dog Horn Publishing, 2012).

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