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Les Quinn


My Widow, like my Kofay, Is BLACK

We text goodnight,
But technology doesn’t sleep, my dear

As you - my space your buddies…
(my buddies)?

All are too eager to keyboard talk,- one – to – one,
(Or en masse)
The herd mentality…

Never on the phone tho…

“Let me tell you-
Women LIE”
You once wrote,
And guess what?

I don’t think you were wrong.
Checkers with Donny Osmond;
Haunting fiftease websites,
With their ego- centric nonentities;
Tattooed good ole boys…

I haven’t embraced the tedium medium yet;
Maybe I live in fear
Of recognising you

Under a non- de- plume.

That’s a chance
I’m not prepared
To take
Be Advised.



For Lionel

Veggie Breakfast
Soaks up
Last night’s debaucherie…
An evening of post flirtation and flyte

Today’s 13th Note sun, is more blinding
Than comforting.

Long Tall Girl and a Litle Small Boy…

Resplendent in not- so- gabardine-sunday best
Bitchin’ Eeatin’ Laughin’ Fartin’
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs
Put in a blender, for 21st century consumption.

I want this forty five, she say;

I’ll outbid, you say

not for the love of R’n’R, I say

More the thrill of the chase;
The Juiciest,
45 this month’s wage will allow-
(post reefer money and cat food tokens)

Was there ever an easy Sunday morn?


Bier and Espresso,
For 3 Euro,
At 11.30,
a small cafay.
In Spain’s noon day sun.

Me Sunblock 30-
White shirt, 16 inch collar
8 inch panama hat;
you laughing, saying I was
of a
Graham Greene character.

3 Days later,
A very dumb waiter.
Serves us the same order
(no change from a fiver)
A desolate bistro
As we looked out at Glasgow’s
Café culture
Who were getting soaked
in the merchant city acid rain,
Puffing their not so working- class lungs out

I cursed,
Sounding like something from an
irvine welch novel (you said);
Me thinking it was more
Jim Kellman…


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