psychogeographer society
i've got a few bones
to pick with you.
you're diluting your own myth
by using your own ink,
the sound
is click. click. click.
click. click. click.
click. click. click.
and as they shovel the salt into the sores of my eyes
i hear them cackle as they rub the gravel deep into their thighs.
cheeks daubed with double yellow lines,
dancing round concrete prop me ups
like a maypole,
a clumsy ritual to the holy land
of social housing broadband
and tower block romance.
i fell in love with the rubble
the immobile reserve no reverence for.
i did not know that there was so much
poetry below the poverty line,
i heard the sadness
in their accents
and i made it mine,
i left some lipstick on the sliproad.
slipping into moth eaten stockings.
straining to stick to a 1920s philosophy
i am proud to say
you have nothing to offer me.
you have nothing to offer me
except double yellow lies.
the smoother the hands
the less wise a girl or a man
reserve your scowls,
i am anti-cape. anti-cowl.
