the taste of native tounge indelibly ink
left on 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.
There are the gates of burnt cliffs
Where we clock watched the dance
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.