sandalwood sticks and plywood bonfires
smoking
in
the
solid dark of country
and
the rip of tent zips talking
the
damp air in nettle ditches
old beer
damp shoes
and
the
wafting funk of weed and wax flares
it all comes rushing back to me
the Radiohead tragedy . . .
rushing back
on bbq winds of suburbia
where
bmw boys bellow about baps and burnt burgers and bites
on
white
legs
on plastic moulded chairs
behind slats of council fences
and
i
remember
counting survivors
in pale yellow mornings
cheap bacon marked up in the buses
when
the
bass
came thru the ground again
No comments:
Post a Comment