by grimbeau

Washed, washed up, washing in the wash – whoosh that’s the sound of corporal punishment and time flying

The parlous Lewis is on the box. This is where I came in three years ago. Whoosh that’s history repeating itself like gherkins and anecdotalists

It’s proper lashing it down out there. Dare I envy the orange lozenge beanflower living in the now. Whoosh whipped the wind with a fulfilled whish

Old music hall jingo-django vaudeville singalongs—bets no-man’s land into a cocked hat
Whoosh there goes a really white whizzbang

The boy I love throws up in the gallery, nacreous alabaster swan’s necks turn when the shot rings out, ‘Gas, gas quick boys’. Whoosh comes the yellow narcoleptic mist