Sightseers.

You face off to a lip stick faced man head on 

stuck popsicicles pining at the hoots 

of the Match making men 

arranging flowers footsteps 

lost in the industrial snow 

Leopold out late at night 

aggregate love music radio 

the longest night of follys chasm 

in the sightseers charmed minds 

 340 plate fumes pour 

across polished floor. 

Cans of wasted youths roll 

across platforms well heeled 

posters of a getaway you’d choose 

lose change rolls away wake up call 

last stop

 you’ve been here before 

and back again lap two 

beat an egg and remember. 

Phew it could been you 

and the night of colouring crayons 

and a poppy etched on your head.

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