on the other side of something.
like he no other cramped on something black.
two astride to Lands End
each their own
tropical and dead.
Flamingo green the tongues that wag and fall
no taller than the last call where dark soldiers kiss and tell.
how cold their bones that nurse our every move.
it is time again for fantasy and flight.
each night our own mere cripples as we dream
where we sleep and dream in cotton-balls of mud
where floods the brain of gods own waterfall.
too far away my bitter limbs of indigo and doubt.
shout hard I say. shout harder than the shawl
that fly\'s half-mast with salmon
while the herring gull and trout
trades lies with we more thistle than the lunatics about.
is it really twenty days since last we laughed?
when we bagged our thousand maggots
and swam the second season through
the gallstones of a drought?
look me now, am more skinny than a whale!
tho I have no tail to sail as Dickens did.
an early life more Christmas than a child...
I am not rich,
I have a grey beard lost somewhere where Portsmouth gives,
all year round
forget. forgive. I have a secret door somewhere
where something lives;