Taste my tounge.

the taste of naively veiled tounge 

indelibly inked 

The links left of your lipstick flavoured mouth 

filled with candy and in need of a drink

as i was saying to my younger 

self being suspended in animation 

was the making of a meandering river.

Anywhere near.


There are the gates of burnt cliffs 

Where we clock watched the dance 

on steel 

rung the water from graves and tees 

carved in the earth with half penny.


With dry cleaned suits came the assurances 

that the monetary crisis remains 

twenty four ago.


The northerly what of the dour 

voices part with decaying words 

As the hands run across green.

Taking the lean out of resistance.