if I had a fancy sash
my own true love would
rent me out in earings
but if I had a ribbon bow
in scratches & numbers
he’d read my mind, with hail
burning like a city’s
frozen & vivid dead:
but my method is to fear him,
his scorched & wasted coins,
history’s oppressive line,
my thighs
my anarchic scales
oh fucking tide
in Poundstretcher &
zombies
everything you like about em
they are in pain
meanwhile, in trivialities
fiendish pretty glimpses
we go mad
no you don’t
music love abstraction
the twisted branches
at the centre of our lives
ignite on interruption
fear walks ahead of us
I feel like a dog on fire
“as I was out walking
I met this woman
said she was, like
the queen of the fairies
dragged me under the sea
fucked me senseless
for seven years
& now I’m dead
or rather
I am eating your brains
so tasteless
& bland
everything is invisible
your stupid racist town"
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside.
ReplyDeleteSean, are you the same Sean who published 'now that all popstars are dead'? if so could you get in contact denis-joe@hotmail.co.uk.
ReplyDeleteI think we have a mutual aquaintance Carl Edwards.
Sorry, but this is the only way that I could contact you.
Denis Joe