The light of the television set washes through me
The light of the television set
washes through me
like a nip of Jameson's.
The nip of Jameson's washes
through me like a man's
five o'clock shadow on my cheek.
The man's shadow goes through me
like a cold walk in winter fields.
The fields go through me
like a Sunday roast.
The taste buds drench me
like dead kisses, resurrected.
The dead kisses sit in me
like old potatoes stinking
double with their own lost life.
From The Day Hospital (US link) by Sally Read, which I cannot recommend enough.