Will the
fucking sun rise tomorrow
In the cold
dawn of your toilet paper
On the herald
of the aftermath of the death of granddad frost
Melted like
the all important weather forecast
In the
nuclear furnace of general contempt
Like the
love of a foxglove for the weep of a bluebell
In the scent
of an eye
When the
summer is naked
Like the clone
of your admittance
Caught in
the hot glare
Of a salt
lorry
On the motorway
to nowhere
Somewhere between
Socrates and Bingley
Piling on the
agony
Without
recourse to a cackle
A fleeting
whimper
Or the cold
sleep of reason
Making all
it’s mines up
While the
fucking cat drowns
On the
vapid margins of your certainty
My love.
Stolen painting by Sinead Breslin
Stolen painting by Sinead Breslin
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