A poet. Yes with a King Charles spaniel and up-lighters.
Market stalls and wondering dick heads at chav night.
Sun a March born miracle.
Now gone split glimmer of bright light. Motorway,
Anticipation and cherish like yesterday pluss.
I see them again. Tiny sheep, furry birdies,
As one would expect as we approach crucifixion o’clock.
Barr Barr white sheep, have you any thoughts,
Or is it just my vegan ego thinking for you.
Fur on green a pleasure to see,
A feeling of cute,
As long as i forget their purpose,
The meaning of sheep.
Future dots of death in nature,
Bloody fruits, unfortunately.
Is it eight am yet?
What do i need, lies?
Tiles cleaned for girls night,
Candy-floss extensions of hate.
Sitting remembering the gemologist,
Am i back on the breast?
A stubborn cliche
A combination of words.
A black cat
A feeling that’s down.
Track between England, fog between pints.
Hindered by disgrace,
Nineteen, cold or Islam, having an attire off.
I salute you your honor,
Vape, fiddle, listen, sit,
Back on the seat before dawn.