back
this is about that never ending happening,
a sad stone’s throw away from us,

the maths to do between two points,
spinal cord to weeks long nail

take mortality, for example,
and how it caters to metaphors about spinning tops

Then, pirouette the hell out of it,
avoid a change in rhythm,
just swaying ever so liminaly further
out to draw new orbits,

in
the
same perfume, each time turned,
as if to bookmark the
day
by

the
fidgeting eyes who breathe at cost
between zero and no hours
a centrifugal economy of walks up
and down Peckham Road
asking the grass in the park

WHAT A SUMMER IT HAS BEEN !?

so much green washed
away before the clouds

THE WHOLE UK IS A SAD YELLOW PATCH ON GOOGLE EARTH
*overheard in Morrisons*

i want to say, yes, that is sad, because it is sad
but i truly want Google Earth to fuck off
for the ground owes nil to satellite standards
or the feel-good symbolic order of english summer

We also hear there’s more green meeting the eye than any other chromatic phenomena
and yet
have you ever thanked the blues
for the park’s grass green?



London or Anxiety or Summer or Greens London or Anxiety or Summer or Greens London or Anxiety or Summer or Greens London or Anxiety or Summer or Greens London or Anxiety or Summer or Greens London or Anxiety or Summer or Greens London or Anxiety or Summer or Greens