We are not
I bid farewell
to the slowly draining
Sun heavy months while they tipped their lips to winter.
The TV asked to
root with me again. Somewhere
last year canters alongside. Progression has been
head-nodding and fonder
acquaintances with the girl who knew the most about life.
At yours I
Old in a frame of excitement. From the wealth of fire
year excitement is prelude on tongue.
This is how we learn
laughter by his broken-in Bowie
revolution steeped, then revolve
Equates to a
hundred or so clock-breakers
learnt from the land and from the kids.
Progression I guess then is separate coupling
We compare our
mock apathy and the dam skulls
that simply are not some perpetual post March.
We've been told
to 'look now at the pretty pink heads'
'so be good, so be all for tomorrows tick'
simply- I half dance I exploit the television's night
the spells of loudness, could be gunfire.
Well then simply
we have grown back to scrutinise awe
for it has wronged us and we are not young. We shoulder the
If awe is youth
then my only forwardness
is ambling back to understand ourselves in
between the dead heat
and the tumultuous grey grieving now.
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