London,
you black lung;
Sucking out my air as if you have none.
Floating
the bodies down,
then spitting out your ambergris of spent young.
Eyes watch
a white flag moon,
revels in that something of it's got too happen soon.
Waiting.
We're just waiting.
As our teeth thin
with every winter,
with every…
Too far,
we've gone too far;
and I cannot see the wood for the trees.
You pulled
a hatchet out,
with a grin, with a grin;
was there ever any doubt?
Spirits waning,
eyes now glazing,
half heart, weak tongue,
fortunes seem gone;
but you're already there.
As T E Morris' equipment is LOST, well, stolen in fact, let's support him by buying his stuff. As with Her Name Is Calla the music is always great, anyway, so I should have gotten this much earlier... Carsten Pieper
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