untilted

Won’t you be the doily

Written on my plinth

Won’t you be the whiplash

Cooking up a hint

Blow winds toast

Rack upon the fleece

Nylon sinks the pony ghost

Like the whiff of priest

If I was the satellite

Waving in your perm

I would set the word alight

When I got my turn

For there is nothing flat

Around about my courage

I might as well go back

To you just like a beggar

Cos I would lick your shoe

And do your rainbow laces

That would show those bastards

Deeply mired in the gutter of thought

Hitting on words

Like skirt

The woods

And vafangooli fuck

My tepid

Shoulder charge.

Won’t you be the confluence

I will be the mud

Won’t you be my accident?

I will be your blood.

23/12/2014 – Moscow