Meet me at. St. Nicholas. Among the oaks. Behind the church. . That sway like pig-tailed girls. As summer wind whistles. Around your bare-skin knees. And the forsythia leaves.
The black bird sits atop my guts and spreads its wings for flight. My shoulders back, my jaw pushed out, my stomach sucked in. Its wingtips push across my lungs and fill them full of feathers.
A wishbone hangs between your breasts. I hope you haven't pulled it yet. And if this little finger doesn't have the strength. Then I'm scared that this bird's back bone breaks.
Recall the time we straddled your window pane. And smoked the last of the weed that sent you insane. In a public loo in a borough of London that I won't mention.
We burnt all the skin. From the palm of my hands. With an old zippo lighter. And deodorant can. I went to the palmist. And asked her to read. No heart line,.
I was sitting on my hands at the top-deck of the 178, spitting cusses at my face reflected in the windscreen pane. Throwing insults and calling names. Filthy SMSs that you sent through the day, by sundown become tame, so I set it in motion again..