the taxi shouts growth, prospect, in a
well fed font as the councilpavers speak.
he's stunted. hides his tins in bins by the
magistrates' thinks
rumthoughts and his scousedream of a
pitchedroof where he was slickhaired n' flying.
an overstock of pigeons round the flattyre of a
delivercycler outside the frenchpatisserie. see,
this chain is very far from a hérmés scarf on a
fourinch calf. moving on.
I will not be watching the highlights later. I will not
be attending church. In this age of
scruffvegan, we'll be suffering, st stephen, at
highbury kfc. in the plunder he licks lips at
mannequins, quarrelcots and bijoubins to piss in.
a neatly tied bag in the caress of dewy wings
on the corner by the bizzies, twitches. still
some cats call this living.
