21 January 2011


you're dangerous. sitting here. mouse in hand. smile thickens. wryness of breath. and you're bitter. timid, ripe and torn tonight. ripped hard like bustop paper. the breast of us in mourning as suns keep rising. tipping out buckets on concrete, snails drinking as if lusted. blades oiling against edges, the oxidisation kicks in. and we're in a car. fending off the undead. sitting in rapid bunches. a treble clef of meaning. but little else. and we dream we're in buildings. upholstorey torn in sharp cracks. the walnut back of your head. the nine am breeze. but still the lips grip. still we suck in city mist. tastes like chalk. like the back of teeth. like buses without drivers. or your apocolyptic stare. and we're out/

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