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

It’s always 5am when she returns, 

dear wife, pale hands clasped at the window, 

lips askew, begging to be let in, 

the scarf still knotted round her neck, 

red buds yet to flower her face. 

Captain Yarma, Regent of the Backend,  

Governor of the Nether, 

left his love bites, but denied entry. 

What did she expect? 

Loyalty and respect? 

And what from me, left behind? 

Chosen to find and bring her down, 

ceiling fan awry, 

desk meticulous but for shoe prints, 

room in disarray, 

the two of us forever, one in rage, 

never knowing where you end and I begin. 

I can’t remember why my line breaks this way. 

In November, I cracked the day to see what might fall out, 

a congealed yellow sky, 

mistake became. 

In December I saw trees in flame, 

a bat with a double snout. 

The President likes pain. 

He’s a big guy with a small, strange mushroom for a penis and brain. 

The colours change, everywhere is the same. 

I can’t remember when I grew these fins. 

Was it now, or then? 

Did we sink, or swim? 

Hi, honey, what’s your name?