Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

A shard of glass wedges into my skin

like a last goodbye:

the words slice like tin can lids

but rust twice as slow

and though I’ve air-lifted each last

broken neck of bottle

still bleeding

and bubbling

its guts to the ground,

I cling on

like chewing gum

stuck to the cracked teeth

of this town.

It’s 5am.

The dawn shakes out the dew.

I shake out a slim black liner

and sweep up my excuses;

blackhole the butt ends

still busking their smoke

into the cracks

of the pavement;

the bus tickets

basking in the streetlight,

gulping at its glow

until black ink

blinks

to grey;

the crumpled caress

of a brown paper bag

still cradling the crumbs

that remain.

It’s 6am.

The rain pinches the pavement

and the last of my dreams.

I steal a glimpse at a puddle

cosying up to the bin,

kissing away the rust

that rims its tired lips

and remember

that I used to be like this.

It’s 7am.

The puddle yawns into the soil

and so I yawn too,

body from bone.

I see myself trapped

inside its glassy stare –

sifting through

lashes of leaves

I scratch the silt

and slugs

from the windowpane,

searching for something to cling onto

in this moon of water.

It’s 8am.

I quit.

The words snag in my throat

like carrier bags

caught on a branch

widowed by the wind

not knowing which way to turn.

I can’t quit.

I’d sooner tin my heart in brine

or the grime of this gutter

than wallow empty-handed

as the womb

of a crisp-packet wrapper

still sucking the salty cry

from its walls.