Candles on the wind

Lighten the Godly passage to Sindh

Where the pains of Spanish ladies

Contour the refrain of deranged grading.

The garden of the grades

Where the blossom is fair in the shade

Of a Serpent’s seditious glare

To fathom a woman’s tressles and hair.

“This is where it will be for me!”

He says under the ignorant Sycamore Tree

With a word as strong as Oak

About his right to fuck hard after a toke.

A token gesture and a reverent remission of cancer’s permission

Cancer’s commission from the Pharmeceutical derision

That the body is his to fatten and flee from

After the farts from Depakote and Deepthroat from Gazprom.

Dark into the night when the oceans crash against the shores

Is the fittest thing, the sexiest Blonde, the holiest Hindu whore

More! Why not sell me your mother to travel on the shared Earth

With wild seas and a few little more than ships from the past

To tell of the wide birth

Beyond the Yugas

Above the Togas

Far from the sticky tobacco and the wives with their stockings and pull overs.

Over and far and fair from the wettest wind

Carrying onto the decks the crouching of shivered boys

Lost to the Port of Spain and the knees that know pain

Travelling men : Back again.

Lost in time : Responsibility is an offered crime.

Crimes that are for me : Crimes that are for you.

Language was thus shared : It spoke of negotiations and upmarket Poo!

Pooh Pah’ing the bandits of the brain

Who mentioned commotion and sold the strain

Of cloth and cupboards and style of Art and affairs

To keep up Consummate Actions so that sexuality had it’s lustful lair.

Proof that Kama Sutra was legal tenacity

And contracts of somatic housing was legality –

They had known us when he had been with her,

So that we could be above this as ours was not theirs…

…

…

… On and on

What a story!

The commotion of The Locomotion

And the trade of The Mona Lisa.

Hey! It’s hay and we have the same bale to make on the shipping

Sell to me your facts and I will fax you some returns.

Burning with the lust to get to the bust from the back bras

And the open bare minimalism of hairs that stand apart from afar –

Show me your Hindu and I will bare a brave resolve

To drink whet and alongside your Islands

Where the unloading is seeing long and Ceylon is my Ramayana song!

Jay Siya Raam!

Ahoy there Hanuman!

You’re my mate with that karma

Since Romantics knew my bonds.

They sold it to me fair

I don’t see why it needs to be sold out late

Now that records speak of the devil

And The Beatles have no first mate!

Still the demons and demonstrate for me awhile, So I can see : —-

—–

—-===++++

— xxxxxx £

$ cost

£Prophet

% Reportage

This is the Spirit of the Age

Again.

{Again is the pain}

And far away is the brain I cannot see on the sea.

These are ships that told of the three line whips

And how Majesty knew to address the dress line

For one or two poetic and rude linearity healthy quips.