the lines straight quiet;
no force nor patter
the distance lays there
in each way an iron line
and here a public
toilet of cold piss and
graffiti, I took my vended
pepsi, my limp
urinal, my shattered humour
and spilled in the country
side around me
the death I had brewed
which Saturday night gave
me in shots
of unmistakable joy
Monday, December 10
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a comment