I’ve decided: what they world is crying out for is really some silly poems. Good luck everyone!
Late, as usual, a little drunk, as usual,
Sprinkling fag ash like Freda Callow might (if she were invited…)
Sitting at table wasn’t where he wanted — despite being asked — to be.
I bet, once, there was just
A job. Single and unified and understood
That job was ‘stay alive.’ Not,
So, what? You’ll open some
cut to air it will heal
Does it mean you’ve imagined