when cookery people's
underclothing screamed
their vintage, hollow, management
dreams, unique, they weighed
services, all new delhiblue at the
london tower teaschool.
when i met patty's spanish mama
that caféday, a mere 17, we
bubbled and pulsed like matched
mosquitos. It was complex
the painter of texas stray
soul's poor and white
and the summer trains are
bait for the paris riot.
closely round the lighthouse rock,
clings the cliché clover
observed, i am but a thief, –
just another brighton walkover.
's always going to be redflashes
rightafter many a misery a
halfmonth's of contemplation of
the way the gap in the bigtree
can make the pavementpurple all in a
surroundsound of occasional tweet and
crash of hollowaytraffic and i'm export
left realising what home can be
The Fluer de Lys sing a version of Circles, as her
long lens snapped at his. I didn’t put on my best for
this kiddy shite, the world is round the corner and man,
I want to hear the thud and bounce of ball on wall, an’ all
your doings are getting me soaked.
In this game, pigtailled charm, don’t cut it. You can
cast your heart if you like, but my trainers are spanking, this is
an orbit, in which I won’t admit, I want to glow too.
But, in these lines of best-fit, chewing on the words of others,
just makes me spew.
