flaming lamborghinis greet us
lizardgreen in the twitch of a
praha 64 dankhouse near the
wreck of debenhams, flowery.
tenstoried sixthformers, all plaidtrad or
pulpfantistic, in vaguely matchingsocks and
godfathergarb, nod the latest bongo
flavored indiehit, to whispers ‘bout blood
sharers. piccadally types, ten
bobeye flit with the offswitch of the
neveraging kickbouncer, us
eyelocked on the bab-eh-fut,
channelling exhibition #7.
as the indoorsmoke separates, that
fellaoffthetelly david icke, greybobs
through the methanic mist –
'scues me, where's the gents?
while high as the parakeet hotel,
eyes and digits are heaven lent,
an acousticidiot lumps a
marshall in the corner, and a
tinsign ads a soap box, in the event.