At Smollensky's we drink words and smoke
Oyster smacks, crabbers, the dead
Like my father's rose-bushes
Gerald Gerund, Thinking
Ivan Ellavanitch and the Recalcitrant Flea
Candled Eggs, Lovers
My smile is ingeniously camouflaged
Asleep on a razor-blade, trying not to wake
I sit quietly on the bed and think
Because animals are slaughtered
Great White Bollocks
Guy Ropes
Under My Kilt, Another Kilt
This is the story of the dead
My date waits outside the organic butchers
The long curtain, the short
Notice, I do not have grace
My father, as his boot comes down
Old rotten planks, rope
You do not know how long you have been here
Yes, and my answer is this...
Everything should be fifty-fifty, six of one
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment