Thursday, 28 April 2011

24: Polly

Brace yourself, Polly,
for the next thing;
you were my
my dayglo schizo
archetype for the


to a thousand happy radios,
pressing pause on
the seismic shift.

I’d like to plait neon
through the hair of your
cosmic ghost,
I’d like to
kiss you,
I’d like to scream the globe to fuck
and reverb in the squall of the
next storm.

I miss you,

I’m playing
Oh Bondage
in the kitchen

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