Dusky Ink
A little heater with its electric glow:
it sits in the shadow, it means home.
Back at my flat; top slot of the lift.
Dusty designs in a ramshackle drift.
There’s no wine, just cheap cigarettes.
Smoke makes ghosts cos I can’t forget.
Cans might clink if I drink as I think.
A moon-edged sky; the window’s brink.
Skeleton towers on her diesel breeze.
The city’s sea shifts softly, uneasily.
The sun inscribes with a dusky ink,
so sirens rise high as he sadly sinks.
Published by Ben Preston
Ben Preston is a poet washed up in London’s Somers Town. He’s worked as a bartender, factory operative, diamond controller, dabbled in philosophy and dropped out of everything. He’s starting again. He’s using the skills he’s developed in creative writing to forge a new life and a new identity.
View all posts by Ben Preston
Ben Preston 