black fridays are everywhere. curry plants flick fronds
arse end up scalloping the wind subject to most passing
wunderkinds, though i did get here in the end. to your
fascist mistress you’re a ‘dork’ & that sexy tone
coming sexily from fancy slippers is a brief natter,
whispering through peppercorns because it has to.
okay? i imagined you as a person, lips like a tongue,
of course i did. a brickie’s labourer reads op-ed:
the seagulls opinionless in a happy sunbeam or two,
while thoughts are paper-clip magnets:
waking up in monica’s slipstream smell about the bathroom:
a tasty influence. the radio’s accent spurred a premonition
& in it like everything i was reflective. we need absurd
administrations. she’s got a way with her hair.
people should be careful with time but
you’re still entering a room in my mind.

it’d be nice for halves to be apparent or at least
for a hat to fit. did you say beer my husband?
it’s cruel to crochet rugs while words are stranded
out on that road, disappearing in a tiny point of perspective,
someone called brandon calling things beautiful
conceiving the thing in a shower. let’s play
games console & burn hair on disposable heads.
you were terry in the minder, walking betwixt a
geezer & a single-mum, casting spells on broadsheets.
i’d mention the dog, the misery, were it robotic.

.

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