recall with me the folks you know close
suppose their eyes observe a glow, so
slowly closing with the dark, hark!
and feel the need to reach our mark
no complaints
and wanes the moon so we’re moving on
these campaigns
of sure-fire tunes, and bottles drawn
seventy shrills from a whore’s nest
seventy kills for the fortress
laughter fills your halls at dusk, much like
irresistible battle-lust
bourbon poured, now rest assured
that all your glory will be restored
when establish brains
remain in liquid perservatives
acting like potted-plant veins
which drain what life the water gives
seventy centuries left to go
seventy year-old eager bones
its funny how i close my eyes and see yours
the proof that what we do we cannot ignore
yet we’re whisked away by bottles of whiskey
and some other girl who says something, like
beneath the canopy life has come
to gather one-and-all, until night is done
and you’re left standing there all on your own
to say “switch me off, i’m going home”
seventy days into a summer, with
how many more? so until another
rolls round…
look.
n.y.e show at the Casbah.
Photography by Rhonnie Cockshutt
C&C&C&C
