.
Heroin
Somebody’d popped an artery in the bogs.
Wrong tube.
Sprayed floods of their latest reddest blood
across the white tiles,
the floor and the cistern;
unravelled about forty feet of shitwipes
to sop the wound
then fled in blind white panic.
“Oh have they?”
enquired the publican,
taking his bar cloth in for the wipe-up,
sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
Philip White
.
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