PENNIES FALL FROM TROUSERS
INTO THE RIPE AND ROTTING GROUND
FROZEN
COMPOSTED
ROTTED
PEELINGS OF PITHY NOTHING
HOW DEAD THEY ARE
WHAT MUSIC THEY MAKE
HOW MIGHTY WILL THE WIND BE
WHAT DAMAGE WILL IT WREAK
STOP THINKING
OF HOME
HER LEFT EYE IS OPEN
SHE WINKS A WINK
AS YOU LIMP
AS OUT COME GASPS OF ANSWERS
SHE OBEDIENTLY STRIPS
SITTING THERE LOOKING DISUSED
A FIREPLACE IN A ROOM THAT HUMS
THE STATE IS SHRINKING
INTO A HOTEL ROOM
THE BEDCOVERS STRIPPED AWAY
WE COME WITH BLOOD
WE FAINT THINKING OF WHAT WE KNOW
WE ARE NECROMANCERS
IMPORTING SECRETS
EVERY ILLUSION IS GHASTLY
SUBJECTED MORE THAN EVER TO SORROW
ALL THE UNDOINGS WE DEGENERATE
AT THE END OF THE ROAD
LOW ON ROMANCE
IN RELATIONSHIPS OF BLOOD
WE GET SMASHED
OUR HEADS SHINE
FILTH TAKES A FORWARD LEAP
LINGERING MEN WITH YELLOW FINGERS
LET DOWN THEIR HAIR
ARRIVE AT HOPE IN LOVE'S LONELY BUNCHES
ARRANGED BY THE DEAD
IN SPRAY-ON TROUSERS
WEARING THEIR HOPES IN HEAVEN
SIDLING OUT OF LIVING IN DESPAIR
AS LEMMINGS
PRECARIOUSLY
IN THE BALANCE
_______________
*See '1/101': viewtopic.php?f=20&t=8708
[Recycled recent poems presented experimentally with block capitals instead of punctuation, and given a silly title.]
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