I said I would make this my magnum opus. 
Wrung out shirts like tongues from the 

radiator’s mouth, rain pins us down from 
the inside, this time. A piano collapses open

is splayed. I’d sooner extract each single key
now broken, than fix the thing and 

finger you Für Elise.

You never expected this to happen but I did.
I thrust my hand and push you bed-wards by the chest.
Drifting, as you do, you are yanked hard awake
and upwards by your hair. A smart pinch commands
my hips and yes, I wear my finer feelings like 

I wear this apparatus: elegantly.

The rest is entropy. On this occasion, I’ll drink.
A slug of St. Emilion coughs out of a knocked glass
and, on top of everything, you remind me you smoke.
About the bed are dotted instruments — of darkness?
Of music? Don’t tease me, but, of torture?
If you’re looking for your phone, it’s there.
Nestled in your underwear.

I think of the dismantled piano. I wonder about us.
A fate come undone, imbalance of order, how can

the student come to lecture a professor, an
idolater venerate the divine from behind?
Between me, this nagging shiver of duty. 
Blow your smoke in my face.

I started calling for you long before you knew my name 
again I’ll come astride you so you can say it out again.
However briefly your whistling kettle wailed for me
I won’t forget
how the steam you gave was so close
you got everybody wet.

Scout Bolton is a poet, artist and editor from the North of England. She has previously been featured in places such as The Guardian, 3:AM, and Keep This Bag Away From Children. She is the author of the collections Softcore Cloudstep (79Rat Press) and Wild Heather (The Accomplices) and her art has been featured at the Syracuse University Art Gallery and in the anthology MACRO (Boost House).

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