Tracheobronchial Dichotomic Escalators

this was unlike the story
it was written to be
I was riding its back
when it used to ride me

Grass shoots and movements draping against the railway tracks of bamboo gardens, only a bit overgrown and smartly dressed in the chinos and pink lipstick. I’m sick of sleeping on the rain arced mornings with the ale wagging in my throat, chocking up and back with surge and bitter force draining back with all the lymph and tannen. I’m blue and pale in this fading yellow burst feeling the greying slew oozing through the mob, a darklight spawning from sea foam crowning the isles shores with dead laurels and holly. There are pomegranate pin stripes behind an old roll top desk clucking in a low melancholy about a wretched pence or three ill spent and flavoured of cheap white wine, but how many windows have you known to let you colour in the scene itself, the icy mood of low flicker flares in under the mantles. It’s a softer carpet we fleece others with, dragging out porridge and poor words long contracted and slurred over with another nip of a highland shadow. And this pasty face focuses for mere seconds shivering under a damaged swing song of a speaker hearing the nananonating of a throttled warbling wren grating the courser fabric of his jacket potato. The servers and served of a racquetball existence this night sleep side to rear and bang the wall with dream-weaving blue fascia still lacking the squash-able sounds of oomph, still institutionalised behind the white doors and plexiglass castles of our foundering fishbowls, turning in their own white-lined mania. A twist to the plot that splint scaling into tissue. And the pornographic mall is American and Germanic, its British and brutish and Jewish and catholic, its carnivorous and Canadian, gracious and botanic, it’s us and them and the we we avoid saying to not incriminate ourselves. Cheers.