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.