Monday, 6 September 2021

oldham's finest flyover


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. 


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