Vincent Clay



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.