AND WE WILL (5/9/1992)

Playing colours on the beautiful lawn,
and every lawn that is beautiful
is perpetually contemplating
the inside of the bull's fake head.

Fury of spent vocals;
Talk around morsels;
a dearth of speech.
The last holy American snouts the ground for silence.

Sad etiquette bitches still there are shrinking.
No Spanish King (or goo) in the red places.
You wait for it with your face,
angled have to lips and tongue;
your ears cluster with weapons.

Downstairs a group of pensioners perform a live radio play
as Juliet shins past, up the black pipe,
to meet her beard.

Note: I really like the phrase "fury of spent vocals", even though it doesn't really mean much. I often say that verse to myself, in my head, when I'm getting fed up with conversation (in general).


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