markbousfield

24/05/09

A day trip on the broken blue
slooping on a crest wave
in the imagination magazine glow of that woman next to me.

Funny how therapy makes me want to piss.

Births broken spokes and ragged hopes
finding fire in the ideas of an artless choir,
sung and hung by the funds of a viscount left in a funk
we cup her breasts as he would be pushed from the bridge rather than jump.

Charmingly charmless in harmony with the afore mentioned artless
hymns bellow beneath God and the Commander in Chief,
wrathful and benign
our deepest foundations sunken into lye.

Sleepless eyes tired of passions for life
and daily cake by the slice,
another decay another day of
the slow sex dream on Saturday mornings spent alone,
sheets of self sown semen affirmingly warm
after coitus drawn solitude sketched by design.