"It wasn't so long ago
that I professed a memory
of words catapulted weakly in restricted reverie.
smatch smarch smurchandise;
search in dyes
merchant eyes
epole htiw enoyreve
rof eht ekas fo ti?
yan.
subterfuge.
I'd like the walls to be cleaner.
New bedspreads and sheets; colours, painted colours in my mind.
But which colours are they?
straiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight and narrow.
poison arrows in my wheelbarrow,
gangrene thumb, bad soil, no fun.
pollute my eventide until the mourningtide comes.
yellow bristol hills
paper plasmic sun
stupid and elusive; in seclusion, everyone."
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