Monday, 20 September 2010

Creeping

Hooded back and skull capped jeans and a gay hairdo and skinny jeans and black hair dye and black tee shirts and black nail polish but what colour could you possibly be?

Hooded back, hunched back to show a skinny waist and a shy concave chest not built of muscle but a hoard of gold and a ruby heart trapped inside Davy Jones’s locker.

But they want you to cut your arms and smash your skull and bury your skull capped jeans and die young and old in the head, sick in the head thank God he’s dead but at least his music still sells. Thank God.

Somewhere, elsewhere I see the red tape fluttering, curling and creeping around the large ant hill. It stops and waits for me to write what I cannot express with words some kind of greatness or some cry for help.

And the hammering in the hedgerow is the only reminder that I know that those warm large hands can’t disband me.

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