first
left alone in the desert of a city of you as it is always you.
the chestnut vendor vends for everything “closure closure” and you buy from her what you normally could not give (it) away cordite pulls its rug from under you as weather is blown back off of the atlantic.
off the atlantic.
in rented accommodation we shuffle like slippers like we would not dare to stride out bare-chested into a future all of which always always seems dog-ear-marked for the rich.
here we are the poor.
old women come in here at this point from the country with radishes squashes wild mushrooms tiny bouquets of pretty pink flowers which are a type of poison.
very is pink.
so you see them as you like them because you buy them.
you you because of you.
typewritten foxes take umbrage at crates
the offprint vole bears a viaduct.
I like the way
small creatures are
taking back this place
timid in their city
flicking to the corners
when seen like balls
bearings in the imp-
ossible and hey!
is not life a kind of
impossible game?
no? yes no? yes.
“yes I guess so and I love you."
we can get by for a while on automatic in the evening amber fades through tea for breakfast lunch fruits of the petroleum forest for a boudoir a bivouac when the rains come we make love velvet pants a dog barks as you leave me I tear my wallet into a heart.
coins bleed me.
just as much as the weevil stutters
so the skelmersdale cadets will mince.
I believe it you had hopes for us alone facing out a sun set thinking only of the fins which stroke idly-deep in the couch of waters squiggly protean things oscillating up and taking sugary bites from out of a portrait of us our sad song lowered on down there.
we let it rest.
the chestnut vendor vends for everything “closure closure” and you buy from her what you normally could not give (it) away cordite pulls its rug from under you as weather is blown back off of the atlantic.
off the atlantic.
in rented accommodation we shuffle like slippers like we would not dare to stride out bare-chested into a future all of which always always seems dog-ear-marked for the rich.
here we are the poor.
old women come in here at this point from the country with radishes squashes wild mushrooms tiny bouquets of pretty pink flowers which are a type of poison.
very is pink.
so you see them as you like them because you buy them.
you you because of you.
typewritten foxes take umbrage at crates
the offprint vole bears a viaduct.
I like the way
small creatures are
taking back this place
timid in their city
flicking to the corners
when seen like balls
bearings in the imp-
ossible and hey!
is not life a kind of
impossible game?
no? yes no? yes.
“yes I guess so and I love you."
we can get by for a while on automatic in the evening amber fades through tea for breakfast lunch fruits of the petroleum forest for a boudoir a bivouac when the rains come we make love velvet pants a dog barks as you leave me I tear my wallet into a heart.
coins bleed me.
just as much as the weevil stutters
so the skelmersdale cadets will mince.
I believe it you had hopes for us alone facing out a sun set thinking only of the fins which stroke idly-deep in the couch of waters squiggly protean things oscillating up and taking sugary bites from out of a portrait of us our sad song lowered on down there.
we let it rest.
