Not clearing, grey stays
The corseteers drink cream
Chicken cup soups
With gullible croutons
Corrugated tin roof din
Wet cats weep
Waiting for morsels
Or dead fledglings
Drowned maiden flight.
A quick gasper, some goss
Back to whalebones
And big hollow needles
For fat cameleopards
A feeling of tundra floods the changing room,
showers preoccupied by dirty, bloody,
foot resters.
How one bleeds, unaware of the stream and
puddle under the desk the surge of red
pumping rivulets,
veinfluid villa floor mosaic slopes
delta grouted runnel and gutter.
Nero’s noblest toerag spills his last.
Vomitarium graffiti states clear:
Petronius expired here
Cannot get away
from this feeling
that I am
under constant,
insidious
surveillance.
After all,
They never stop going on about it:
The Mediums
It is difficult
not to take it
personally.
Spookies .
‘Perhaps someone is surveilling this?
comes a Little
Voice
Don’t be silly!
Whobody
in their right mind
would do that?
Grimbeau 