By The Morning Post I’m doing quite well, Not too many things considered, Though the tea here is much too Weak for my liking. But the weather’s pretty dry, If you don’t count the rain, Still my mind keeps Steaming up As some strange kind of Consequence. I can imagine you sitting With the net curtains drawn Discarding tea leaves Like lovers With an almost post-orgasmic Tranquillity. I wonder if you laugh At the same pitch you used to When you recalled how we’d use gauze To repair our broken hearts. These days I’m more tired Than perhaps you remember, But that can probably be attributed To this feral atmosphere. Or else it’s the music -It seems they’ve really lost their touchIt’s nothing like the clear, Chaotic work one used to hear. On a quite different note (If you’ll excuse the pun) I still rather miss you, though I’m Sunburnt by the spotlights. It’s almost death by enthusiasm, Like children playing with Defiled horrors. So the thing is, my dearest, That I don’t think I’ll make it Back home by September This year either, But I’m sure that you’ll get this In time for August. Evie Cassandra Ioannidi
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