
Eighteen
by Christopher W. Clark
We razed beer from death
Smooth skinned, smoked joints
And wore pearls.
Rose emperors
Stole porn and corner shop pies
On Monday nights at 2am.
Painted nails escaped daylit
Streets; stacked chairs
And £2.99 meal deals
Gifts for discarded gods.
I knew your mother, once
Squirmed on phone cords
She took us shopping
Until she didn’t.
Christopher W. Clark (@chriswillclark) reads, writes, and teaches things. Their poems have featured in various publications including Emerge Literary Journal, The Cadaverine, and Ink, Sweat, & Tears. They have collaborated with The Royal Philharmonic Society and photographer Mick Frank among others. They are currently working on a chapbook and full-length novel dealing with the intersections of class and queerness.