SUNDAY MORNING
laying in bed at eight on a
sunday morning with the
blinds closed hiding from
the sun,
i can’t see oscar wilde’s
stars now; only the gutter
and the walls are like a
prison cell:
poetry cannot save me
this morning and i cannot
save it;
the sun penetrating my
helpless blinds—
and me powerless to do
anything.
_________________________________________________________________________
Brenton Booth writes poetry and prose. He resides in Sydney, Australia. Work of his has been printed in a variety of publications, most recently 3:AM Magazine, Scissors and Spackle, Thunder Sandwich, Commonline journal, Yellow Mama, Underground Voices, Red Fez, Boyslut, Dead Snakes, Pyrokinection, Dogzplot, Unlikely Stories, Clutching at Straws and Storm Cycle.