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 : —-
—–
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— 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.
Wild Stage 