Long legs,
Orange eyes That singe the dusk Like fireflies, That drink the sky And toast to mine, Get drunk on words In lieu of wine. Black coffee Brewed in threes and Putney bridge is Drowned in trees. So lend me your Candy-coated kiss, Repartee and Weightlessness. (Whilst trivial questions, Poised on a cloud, Plummet to earth to be Spoken aloud.) If I were a book Would you break my spine? And if I were French Would you feed me a line? I can’t cure like nicotine, Painting your heart black, Nor am I poetry Scrawled on the tarmac. Nevertheless I’d cocoon you in rhyme If this metre and stanza Could cancel out time. I’d freeze the Atlantic In its current position; To keep you I’d put on an Antic disposition. If dancing on a harpsichord By the village green Gives you as much of a Kick as caffeine, We could spend the day Tripping the light fantastick, Not caring if Others see us as bombastic. You’re a tall, tea-stained English rose Speaking in prose on your Tippy toes, Employing a diction that’s Eloquent yet slurred, Like dissonant chords mixed with Biblical words. Mumbling lover - If I had my druthers, We’d both end up in Some city or other, We’d roam every boulevard, Smoking our cigarettes, And you’d live forever in this Rhyming couplet: Like Mary you are quite contrary. Like breathing, you are necessary.
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It's rather a drag
Not having a fag, especially during the nighttime. . It makes me feel antsy, Cos all that I fancy's Some quality Marlboro Light time. It's a dangerous game, foreseeing the future;
it's almost always never true. To think that life is a product of fate is to be tremendously fooled. It's a dangerous game, foreseeing the future; it's almost always never true. If you have to believe in something, Believe in you. The sky is closer in Edinburgh
than anywhere else in the world. Clouds crowd ‘round in riots, Fickly dripping with rain and then Drying up, raisin-like. Pigeons and gulls weave around Bridges and hills In chaotic feathered packs, Cooing and squawking In absurd bird anguish. In secret, slippery nooks, Supernatural spirits whisper and linger Under dim-lit, age-old, stony stairs. The closeness of the sky breeds Infinite life and eternal death, Indistinguishable in the Ghastly, great greyness Consuming the city. And so continues our flight of fancy
Feigned romance elated dancing Waltzing under rose-tinted spotlight tock the clocks but time is not right twist and swing like metronomes beat slows down and even though disaccord and inconvenience plague this ghostly white dream sequence concrete confines couldn’t stop me for the beat and you still rock me |
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