In galaxies, x always marks this spot
You’ve declared war on zombie street lamps
Bigger than meaning, these shoulders are obtuse
Your face hasn’t blocked my imagination
We’re not the lucky few, but the fourth leaf of a daisy
Bridge Rd can’t be the same with broken ribs
Orange juice washes away the DNA traces
I can’t write freely, surrounded by coked out kids screaming, ‘Blame me!’
Amphetamines for all and sundry and cork pipes
Blare music and smoke cigars that explode
The sun will freeze soon enough
Out there, in between definition, is insulated time
With, at least some, thanks to Paul Éluard
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