it stands but doesn\'t move.
were it to move would I shove it any more?
a lump of congealed moussaka
the other side of skin.
a heart that wouldn\'t pump a liver dry.
praise be to the one in his coat and tails
if all else fails, blink once the talisman.
your lucky charm came locked with no preserve.
there was no way out,
all key\'s lead flowers permanently ill.
the long haul days brought laughing gas a stitch.
not once did the shortest day of landscape roll
from toll booth to the long arch of a foot.
it was the killers touch of perfume on the wheel
turning clock-wise west on an even keel
that drove us mad and fucked our laundry bag.
what cannot sleep has lost the right to die.
we croak and lather sedatives to re-invent old lines
with the baby-crap on orange peel.
me, my timber-laugh to your vein of flies.
what cannot swim has lost the right to fly.
it stands but doesn\'t move
this pocket-book of photographs.
it was the bore of vague vocabulary
that did us both to death.