Taste my tounge.

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.

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.