.
.
.
.

it was going to be 5 in the morning
and your fade-black stockinged legs were going to swivel
as your feet became family with the floorboards again

when the pickled penguin said Hold Out
against the knives of time
and the metal gloves that squeeze-crush
and the pale evasive snake sniggering on a bar-stool
and the envelopes melting in sour butter, Hold Out
against every possibility of plastic success
it was going to be 5 in the morning
and the fruit-flies would not move from the rim of the cup

Hold Out in sea- foam meadow green,
against the better side of you being smashed into a brick wall
against tranquilised radiators and sausage-soup and binoculars made of greed
all moralistic diets slipping into the riot-cop ocean
and bedfellows to the tsars
pink vices and purple aftermaths their own timeless rewards
it was going to be 5 in the morning
and there was one other car in the parking-lot

pickled penguin stroking the planetary airwaves with solemnity
muddled wine, imploding farmland, white woolen bears
and vinegar'd moustaches the cardboard cities excavate the roman pillars of vixen-tears, cougar-breath, canine cavities like flashlights beckoning the eternal dead
a calm curtain drifts the camera's boot-laces
and I was about to light your cigarette
when we were children, one of my legs and one of your legs went swimming together
it was going to be 5 in the morning
and your hair was going to be a complete mess

and all the traitors were pouring yesterday into their own ears
the butterflies of despair were organising a protest march
and the anger of older men was considered excessive
and some-one said, what are closed captions?
& disturbing the equinox with it's dubious eyes and rascally top-coat
poverty is something we have to work towards
to splatter joy, like cum, into the face of tomorrow's world
& our hearts had played trampoline together for 2,000 years.

.
.
.
.
.



............................................Goodmorningforeverandthemanymorningswewillwaketogether
g
o
o
m
o
r
n