27 April 2012
One freak bubble in traffic flow silent Shaftesbury Avenue with not a car in sight
She ascends from Freud one hair’s thick, gold thread (so seem summer stones to the sad dead holding their heat and hearts in droves the Ancient Dead of a Florida care home hotter than Hell, Hades or Benidorm) wrought in flaming yellows of saffron and primrose
Bedeviling sense of a sensual black hole marine, Blue Louise, gris bois and myrtle vert her breasts, like the ripest fruits that grow from deep water’s twisted groves
There’s no religion here or deadly damage done to Catholics pouring over smut-filled pages
I’m a Sunderland lottery winner in Harrods
She smiles a lime-slice smile on a village green
J. x
Revelry • Opuss № I