She sleeps in a glass bed by James Bird

The Socialist Fraternal Kiss between Leonid Brezhnev and Erich Honecker 1979

The flimsy masturbations of the leaders of our nations are numbing themselves into self-exiled castrations.

I can see you –

Cameron, Netanyahu, Ahmedinijad, Obama

All topless in one fucked up online chat room

Face masks of cellophane held together with IP numbers of previously sold gold

Ears covering eyes and noses smelling mouths

Tangible emoticons.

Pixelated walls blurring what is being said with what isn’t being said

Blurring who is kissing who

Whose lips are whose

Whose bits are whose

Whose fibs are whose

but its always

Tits or GTFO

Information or GTFO

Compliance or GTFO

Get the fuck out – so I did

The milk of our ideas is

running through the streets

Mixing our spits with their shits

And disappearing down the drains to its intestines

To where we intersect intermingle intersex

Intersex intersex I interject and

Remember that

She sleeps in a glass bed

Every night

We make beaches together

We change the shapes

Of the continents together

Crumbling biscuits dipped into

Each other’s hot mouths

We make them fit how we fit how they used to fit before the dinosaurs didn’t fit.

When you fall asleep on the metro

And wake up falling off a cliff

We are changing the tide

And making beaches

In her glass bed

And I can see you right through it

And we erode we explode we do what we have been forbode

And bleach us together –

We make beaches together.

the flimsy masturbations of the leaders of our nations are numbing themselves into self-exiled castrations.

I can see you –

Putin, Merkel, Mugabe

All topless in one fucked up chatroom

Asking each other to see feet to see ankles to see toes

Pockets of BitCoins jingling to songs they don’t know the words to

But in our den with ceilings for walls and carpets for doors and windows for windows

You are not present

You are in the drains

Whilst the milk of our ideas takes us to clouds made of glass

And skin that tastes of rushed bike rides from the station

To your wet mouth.

Bio: I don’t like to write about myself in the third person. My name is James Bird and I am a 23 year old boy who lives in Hackney, London. I am from Wolverhampton, which is a city near Birmingham. I write words and also publish other people’s words in a publication called the Belleville Park Pages. I have been published in some magazines and some online things. I like to analyse social happenings, play football and read Private Eye.

Synopsis: The vague narrative-ish of the poem contemplates the idea of being in bed with somebody whilst thinking about other things going on. It is political fuckery. Most of the nouns in the piece are blurred or indefinite. The political leaders can be interchanged, ears are eyes and the bed is made of glass. What is thought of as a social media form is usurped by the ruling class. Here, a chatroom, is inhabited by those who do not usually ‘chat’, at least not in the public eye. Yet they are all baring skin, not to us (society), but to each other. Perhaps sharing a bed is the place where this corruptness cannot reach. But the bed is made of glass, and can be seen right through.

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