untitled, in brighton

Tea and the implied smoulder

of half ribbed terran hearts

spinning dervish of Hackneyed

shorditch passing counter culture

fiends

eyes with condor wings, the

bald spinning, virginal smoke

ring

what ground that we tread on

with shakey, whole fear

the burning spiral of terrestrial hearts

the greatest rival of

the cosmos

we hold and control you

with names, starting with

I, as you, and the beginning

dance endlessly upon the

beating chest of gia

the wind can only destroy

your form, obliterate your

significance from the

visible spectrum

strumming Joe's and others

of narcissistic Shorditch

endless fear, and

referential glory

the best is the ground that

does not tip us over, and

the whirling smoke is the

best we can do

Tea, brewed with the hearts of

crashing test pilots, shoved

up our noses, mellowed

with a curl of fractal

knowledge.

and we are with it

and through the smoke, I can

see you swirling

digits rigid with euphoria

legs rooted in with terrestrial

vows

we we we they we they they we

they are weak

and we are they