Tuesday, 24 September 2013

Something normal at last

The girl is not fashion, she
thinks too much
eschews the ampersands
eyelids are swollen.

The girls stores saltmines of hair,
pigeon mail to her lovers
a hawk, a seagull chanting
the girl chancing her mitt.

Halfway through the evening
a zeppelin falls
sparks of liquid helium
the goats all gone to hell.

Coatcheck cutouts, our
sunglasses are full
our worn out jeans
knees gone to gauze and gaudy.

The girl falls down a flight
of pelicans and lands
on bacon
something normal at last.

Trumpet solos.
Exploding sugar.
The encore.
Your own private apocalypse.

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