Wednesday, 8 December 2010

untitled, in brighton

Tea and the implied smoulder
of half ribbed terran hearts
spinning dervish of Hackneyed
shorditch passing counter culture
eyes with condor wings, the
bald spinning, virginal smoke
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

and we are with it

and through the smoke, I can
see you swirling
digits rigid with euphoria
legs rooted in with terrestrial

we we we they we they they we
they are weak
and we are they

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