I have found a tree I quite like,
it is the closest I will get to having a girlfriend.
I used to like golf but then I
realised how sad it is.
Click! Clock! go the lunar balls
behind sun-blent me, I,
who usually live in the corner of a cupboard.
Behind me drivel distant voices of golfing parlance,
in front, unidentified creatures vibrate in the heather;
a code just for them.
The former’s clickclocking, shared love of shit attire and talk
they call banter—some young’uns, bantz—
discomposes my sprockets of creativity, my chain of production;
a golf ball is lodged between the radial projections.
I wouldn’t be so angry
if I wasn’t so lonely.
They are probably alright, the golfers
like my tree.
I am at a new tree today,
better for sitting by and better hidden from the golfers
who are not here
but they were yesterday; the fuckers.
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