Smoke house.(dairy)

It was never the sort of religion you could 

take with you when lost on the bowling lanes

To the smoke house west of here a stones 

Throw to the thoughts of being Reborn 

anything more than a pipe maker.


Struggling with childhood addiction to the 

phonics of being seen and heard.


Amongst the silent forest of a burnt 

Out lumbering automobile industry 

Fallen on the merchant  of rubber plants 

with Rusting Springs i recline.


Bluebells to walk Bare feet in the satires 

of fairies whispering games 

amongst the names 

All but lost for ship wreck of streams 

And are you still conscious of Geared sails 

that take you Furthered when unfurled.