Tracey, what am I meant to do with all this shit?
Party snacks
platters of them
orange and puffed up
Moloko rasping from a corner
there’s an awareness of space, of bug spray
Cloying lovely SCENT OF BANDAGES
The sky-outlet is on the violet side
aware of its toxicity as well as it’s splendour.
A ladybird crawls across glass
it’s hard to know whether it belongs
A sunflower knocks into bloom
the best of the cyclopean masts.
If you get off Jury Service early, meet me for a beer in the Swan with Two Necks.
I heard that south of the capital city a new kind of transportation has brokered in
The third step down is the one that holds the truth.
Marriage to the gilt impresario will bring fatal fluency on the road.
Or something enmeshed, radiatorial
Or, it’s a rumour; unsubstantiated
Or the kite is patched up and ready to fly
Or the lightning bolt design really caught on
Or some exit wound saltbright and canteloup yellow
Or as sharp as the crease in an envelope
Or a scooped-out Magnolia husk
Or the balloon’s billowing string in strident locust green
The viewing platform is closed yellow cordons tell us
Yield! I said, Yield!
