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Vincent Clay
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Rack
Walking out into winter cold air after another weekday night fed by another of my many friends and half a bottle of wine
Few hundred yards then down into tube:
Pupils contract. Striplights fatten the space
Between managed angles and flat of white tiles.
And taking up my eyes, across my direction and all in view
Flat expanse of cover-sheen in newsagent space
All cast across with images of white girl-skin and model-flesh
Made uniform under lights, in mass they push from this sheer containment of pages
Push through my face and press against the interiors of my skull.
There they remain – another moment’s layer losing its identity
In the mineralising accretion of generalised sex.
Like tartar on teeth.
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