on route

A Guinness rumble pedigree smoke black
and a top froth man-rant about the
unexpectations we tell you we have
(my hands are too cold to spell) and
I think on my way to see you,
something around the 3 month mark,
that maybe your hair's still long and
not the real short I fell in love with
when I was nearly 'Key Boy' and there
was a bloody great hole in the world.
Next I'm happy, the trench of personality and
decent to work - we were poor lecturers,
ex-1960, Hollywood school-boys on Madonna and a disco miss.
You'd often be along with mayhem
and he disappeared, the hair style,
the elaborate and don't you...but no,
they do things like further seminars,
I hope it's still paying - the patient walked through.
Because the three extensions, they sold to me,
it's a branch - the ward hasn't made a difference to us.
They just move lots of time -
that's probably why, there's problems
and...we're interested in,
yeah I mean, after my two weeks off,
finished Delta - to be a good teacher again.
Because I know I stood once
and those things are good for me.

so it seems I'm a rock to be broken on,
just a test
a tense tease to determine if
she's strong enough to -
and there's been a few
who've found me
eminently resistible
like I'm the sacrifice and the
surety that they're still
each his
and not
well...
and for a time I convince myself
to be the flattered party
and not the other way around
and I'll remember, must must remember,
not to give the true impression that
I'm all there, that she's right
and I'm the prize...

consecrated

it's...shaking after the first act
it's seeing the tiny curve of the left of your
it's ours during
and yours during...
and a laugh across a play
and it's seeing all the right notes
and it's the impossibility of tomorrow
and it's we three
drawing a line in, and...
forgetting that this is
the sweet desert
the arch of
and frisson

mungo

a flinder-stone out-mad laugh
that's the way forward, he says
I can't see the horizon just
a salt-bath angiogram
a deep related sea - older
than anything

Alamo-way

barracking not battling
Whitsunday pace at nine-o-
nine a.m. you seem to stall
mouth wash down from 405
and out along the Reach
turned Redondo-red -
indolent, baked on hard
witherin and waiting in the sweet
raisin wind and give (the last
time's note-perfect score) I
would believe, a lesson
in this, paunching up against -
the curving out of the world
at its tiredest edge
a slipper slope pickelhaube
out down the Bay, and rain with
anchovies like kings falls on
a softer, derided day, one
that you, said, couldn't be