Old Kicks Poem by Elliot Fry

so i'm calling
old kicks to rustle
in leaves and to pretend
nothing's different
going away or growing away
strange vines
push us out
onto different paths

my new room's four squared
i'm no good at maths
or, for that matter
deeper-than-skin connections
i feel barely embedded
before i'm torn out
to grasp again
and hold the strain

i need a drink
with someone easy
to spill my guts and garters
we'll wind up
howling obscenities
at the moon