no title (cliched title)

eclipsed time
shotgun weddings
metal brakes
– the morning stars
will be gone in the
direction they are going
– serpent like
the monsters are no longer there
tucked into bed

-the smell of a mothers breast
a shimmering gloss–
burst bubblegum popped
sticks to top lip.
your philtrum,

stuck on pavements, to the
bottom of trainers, in the cracks

you can hear cowboy priests,
their itchy fingers scratch scabs through
a monkeys mouth
an the alarm screams –

crushed by headlines
bold type under your bed
– they’re everywhere –
behind towns in
plastics bags
with swimming fish –
a fairground prize –
big wheel lullabies –

warm milk trains run on parallel
tracks, stopping –
paper cobbled stones
cardboard concrete
shanty town,
in the sleepy eyed dusk
– a florescent strobe


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