in my sunday morning mews
with views of summers after-thought
through second-hand confetti in a ball.
am in a lemon sorbet mood
where cuts the cringe of northern lights
my tongue alive with wishes
of an oriental flame.
a gentle breeze of metaphors
too many words that fail my brittle tones
I am all but one. a braver man than this.
there are people here with enigmatic smiles
who wile away my hours
through trials and tribulations
to run amok left-handed on my face.
it is bright enough to hunt the cobra down
drown his spitting sorrows
where the white rooks feed their off-spring
a taverns blood-and-treackle through a paw.
the breeze now raw as meat on smoking wood
that lights my mind the circle of a crab
it is dreary. it is drab.
it tastes of blood I haven\'t met before.
it is time to march with twig and cross
and pray no buggers hand-me-downs
drown my spine in a knuckle-full of ice.
this beauty of a pact.
a perfect match of love and cigarettes.
two lungs in love on a bed of satin sea.
I only fall from grace one year in every three.